The Ju'ukrterian It-Being's Tale

2 

The Ju’ukrterian It-Being’s Tale 
 

 

    When the Thwurbullerian came back from the hygiene cabinets it was terrifically impressed at meeting a Ju’ukrterian it-being and, since Trff congratulated it on its lovely story, urged it to tell a story next, if it would care to?

    “It doesn’t know any,” said BrTl quickly.

    “Yes, it does!” said Trff in surprise, pointing a surprised antenna at him.

    “All right, name one.”

    “If you-it wishes, of course it’ll name one. It didn’t know they had to have names, though, BrTl.”

    “Name ONE!” he repeated, getting rather loud.

    “‘The Story of How Jhl and BrTl and Trff Went to Ubberthawenny and Zapped—’”

    “Not that one!” he gasped.

    “Oh. It thought it was a good story, BrTl. It’s heard you-it tell it in spaceport bars twenty-three times.” 
    Twenty-thr—! Literal-minded engineering asteroid-brain! Spaceport dives, and do NOT tell it, he sent evilly.

    It sees: not appropriate to the company. You-it might have said so before! “It’s a story much appreciated by fellow-spacers, but of course not appropriate to the present company,” it said politely.—BrTl restrained the impulse to shut his eyes, because guess what? It was only gonna get worse!—“It’ll name another one. ‘The Story of How Jhl and BrTl and Trff Went to Z’therabad on Whtyll and Conned the J’rd’s Food Hall Manager Into—’ Oh. No. It thought that was a good story, BrTl,” it said sadly.

    Forty-Four was emanating a strong wish to hear it but BrTl closed his mind completely to this and said: “What about one of Jhl’s stories from when she was in Space Fleet?”

    “That’s a good idea! It could name of one those!” There was a discernible IG microsecond’s pause. Then it sent: Nothing with zapping in it, though?

    You-it sent it, he agreed sourly.

    “It will name one of Jhl’s stories from when she was in Space Fleet,” it announced. Several members of its audience blinked, or displayed similar body signals indicating various degrees of “taken aback,” and “hasn’t it been there, done that?” and similar. BrTl didn’t bother to react—and before it was done, they weren’t gonna bother to, either, or his name wasn’t BrTl!

    “Who is Jhl?” asked Dohra, very confused.

    “Our Captain. BrTl’s and its,” Trff explained.

    Dohra gaped at it. Maybe it didn’t know that the mind-image it was sending didn’t match any idea of a trader captain in the Known Uni—

    “Yes,” said BrTl laconically.

    “What’s wrong?” asked blndreL, taking a jing-jing nut.

    “I—I had it all wrong. I thought their captain was… older,” finished Dohra limply, unable to convey the magnitude of her misconception.

    “No,” said the Nblyterian simply.

    “In Feeny-Argyllian years, that would be quite young,” the paired beings agreed.

    Dohra subsided, trying vainly to smile.

    “‘The Story of How Jhl Lost Her-its FW Pack When She-it was in Space Fl—’ BrTl thinks it wouldn’t be appropriate,” it said sadly. “Are those other stories appropriate?” it asked him.

    “Not entirely. Better not tell them after all, Trff.”

    “It wasn’t going to tell them, it was only going to name them.”

    BlndreL had realised that some of her beliefs about Ju’ukrterian it-beings had been mistaken. She took a deep breath. “The telling usually comes straight after the naming, Trff.”

    “Certainly in circumstances where the company’s sitting round expecting to hear a story,” said BrTl precisely, but with a certain resignation in his tone. –Literal-minded, he explained resignedly to the Nblyterian.

    I see! she agreed, with a mammalian grin.

    “Have another nut,” he said generously, cheering up slightly. “Or in fact an appendageful.”

    “Thanks, I think I’ll need them!” she agreed with a bass rumble of laughter.

    The it-being pointed an antenna briefly at her. “What about ‘The Story of How Jhl Was in a Four With a Nblyteri—’” What does you-it mean, we don’t want any more little tubes?

    Just take it as a given, thanks, Trff, returned BrTl heavily. That cuts out twos, threes, fours, fives, and any other combinations she was or might’ve been in—get it?

    All right! it sent huffily, beginning to fluff itself up crossly.

    “A Ju’ukrterian story would be nice,” the Thwurbullerian put in kindly.

    “Yes, tell a Ju’ukrterian story!” urged the Feeny-Argyllians.

    “Yes, tell a Ju’ukrterian story, Great One!” echoed the yellow Flppu.

    BrTl had seen this coming from a megazillion megazillion glps out, so he just settled his back more comfortably—“Oops, sorry, Forty-Four!”—settled his back more comfortably against his section of the corner whilst keeping his tail firmly out of tickling-range of other beings’ epidermis. “Go on, Trff, it’ll be—uh—interesting for them, they’ve never heard one before. Oh: and when you sense feelings of getting-to-the-end-ishness, just stop, there’s a good old Trff, will you?”

    “It always does.”

    Yeah, right. “The one with the nga’a-nga’a birds in it’s good,” he said kindly.

    “It’ll tell that one, then, shall it?” it said happily.

    The company chorusing “Yes, please!” it began.
 

 

    This story is called “The Story With the Nga’a-Nga’a Birds in It.” The it-being is happy on a planet very far away where the nga’a-nga’a birds are singing to two silver moons in a pink sky and the laa flows like laa. It begs its audience’s pardon: where the laa flows in the fullest degree of laa-ishness.

   The it-being is fermenting up the laa. The it-being is deep in contemplation of its happiness. The it-being is allowing a being-not-of-it-beingness to collect discarded nga’a-nga’a feathers fallen to the silver sand. The it-being is deep in contemplation of the nga’a-nga’a birds’ singing. The it-being is calculating the astronomical distance, in terms of the commonly perceived space-time continuum, between the two silver moons. The it-being is cooking up the nga’a-nga’a birds’ eggs. The it-being is wondering if the observed phenomenon of the nga’a-nga’a birds’ nga’a-nga’a bird-ishness can be related meaningfully to the observed phenomenon of the reflectivity of the silver sand. The it-being meets a being-not-of-it-beingness. The it-being is eating the nga’a-nga’a birds’ eggs of the fullest degree of nga’a-nga’a birds’ egg-ishness. The it-being is drinking the laa of the fullest degree of laa-ishness. Mmm, the scent of Zllian eeaiiaya flowers in early summer is sensed by the it-being. The it-being is picking the eeaiiaya flowers. The being-not-of-it-beingness is greeting the it-being. “May this humble being-not-of-it-beingness have the it-being’s permission to gather discarded nga’a-nga’a feathers which have fallen to the silver sand of the it-being’s planet which is in the fullest degree of it-being-planetness?”
 

    The emanations of bewilderment and confusion had become so loud that BrTl cleared his throat, though earlier he’d sworn to himself he’d just lean back and enjoy it. “Sorry,” he said, as the yellow Flppu was blown ceiling-wards, squeaking. He replaced it on its humanoid-type chair with a kindly pseudopod. “I hate to interrupt, dear old Trff, and it’s all quite clear to me—”

    “It sees that!” it hooted happily.

    “Yes. But these other beings aren’t used to Ju’ukrterian stories.”

    The other beings were emanating agreement with him but as none of them spoke up Dohra took a deep breath and said valiantly: “It’s a lovely story so far, Trff! I wish I could go there, your planet sounds really beautiful!”

    “‘In the fullest degree of it-being-planetness,’” corrected BrTl, not quite under his breath.

    “Yes,” she said, giving him a scorching mammalian glare which might not have had the Vvlvanian free-fire quality of his Captain’s glares, but ran them pretty Vvlvanian-cursed close. “Really beautiful. I wish I could see the pink sky and the two silver— Ooh!” she gasped, finding she was.

    Some beings don’t care for that, BrTl sent idly to his ship-companion.

    She-it does! it replied crossly.

    Now—yes.

    “It didn’t mean to take you-it by surprise, Dohra,” Trff explained kindly.

    “No, of course not!” she beamed. “That was wonderful! I wish I lived there!”

    “You-it would have to wear your-its FW pack, Dohra.”

    “I see,” she said sadly. “Um, could I just ask, um, was the it-being in the story doing all those things at once?”

    “Oh, yes,” it said placidly.

    “In terms of the commonly perceived space-time continuum, it was talking about more than one it-being,” warned BrTl mildly. He’d seen that one coming way back when the first Br-cognates were still in their culture-pod—speaking purely figuratively and not in terms of the plasmo-blasted commonly perceived You-Know-What.

    “Oh—yes. Several, Dohra. Several,” said Trff, sounding horribly vague.

    “I see,” she fumbled. “It was like a—a get-together?”

    “Not in terms of the commonly perceived space-time continuum,” it admitted cautiously. “Of course, in Ju’ukrterian terms, that is it. Or not,” it added.

    It’s like that, BrTl warned the confused mammalian humanoid. You’ll find it much easier if you just accept everything.

    “It was most enjoyable, Trff,” said the Thwurbullerian politely. “May I ask, was there more than one off-worlder wishing to gather nga’a-nga’a feathers?”

    “Nga’a-nga’a feathers,” said the Nblyterian under her breath, with a deep sigh.

    “They have that effect on Jhl, too,” BrTl agreed. “One off-worlder in this instance, in terms of the commonly perceived space-time continuum, wasn’t there, Trff?”

    “In terms of the commonly perceived space-time continuum, in this instance: one. Yes,” it said pleasedly.

    “Yes. In terms of the commonly perceived space-time continuum, you-it had those parts of the story a bit out of order,” he explained.

    “Did it? It begs all beings’ pardons,” it said nicely. “Shall it go on?”

    “Yes, please go on,” urged the Thwurbullerian politely.

    “Yes, do. And if the nga’a-nga’a feathers come into a bit more, personally I won't mind!” said blndreL with a laugh.

    “They don’t affect me,” chorused the Feeny-Argyllians regretfully.

    “They affect me!” squeaked the yellow Flppu, bobbing excitedly. It shot up to the length of its rein and its masters, apologising to the company, hauled it down again. “Humblest apologies, Great One,” it said to Trff. “Please go on with your lovely story.”

    Happily the it-being went on:
 

 

   The it-being is fermenting up the laa. The it-being is deep in contemplation of its happiness. The it-being is picking the eeaiiaya flowers. The it-being is allowing a being-not-of-it-beingness to collect discarded nga’a-nga’a feathers fallen to the silver sand. The being-not-of-it-beingness is greeting the it-being. “May this humble being-not-of-it-beingness have the it-being’s permission to gather discarded nga’a-nga’a feathers which have fallen to the silver sand of the it-being’s planet which is in the fullest degree of it-being-planetness?”

    The it-being is allowing a being-not-of-it-beingness to collect discarded nga’a-nga’a feathers fallen to the silver sand. The it-being is fermenting up the laa. The it-being is deep in contemplation of its happiness. The it-being is picking the eeaiiaya flowers. The it-being is on a planet, not of it-being-planetness. The it-being is wishing it was on the planet of fullest it-being-planetness. The it-being is helping the being-not-of-it-beingness on the planet-not-of-it-being-planetness to decipher the encoding of the stones. The it-being is allowing a being-not-of-it-beingness to collect discarded nga’a-nga’a feathers fallen to the silver sand. The it-being is deep in contemplation of its happiness. The it-being is fermenting up the laa. The it-being is on a planet, not of it-being-planetness. The it-being is picking the eeaiiaya flowers. The it-being is wishing it was on the planet of it-being-planetness.

    “Thank you-it, oh great it-being of fullest it-beingness, for allowing this humble being-not-of-it-beingness to gather the fallen nga’a-nga’a feathers,” says the being-not-of-it-beingness. The it-being is deep in contemplation of its happiness. The it-being is picking the eeaiiaya flowers. The it-being is fermenting up the laa. “They are nga’a-nga’a feathers of the fullest degree of nga’a-nga’a feather-ishness,” says the being-not-of-it-beingness. The it-being is fermenting up the laa. The it-being is calculating the ship’s trajectory, in terms of the commonly-perceived space-time continuum, from Planet W690 in the Two Thousand Eight Hundred and Forty-First Sector, to Planet PG50831 in the Second Sector, given the influence, in terms of the commonly perceived space-time continuum, of Star Z42 which is going super-nova, in terms of the commonly perceived space-time continuum, within ten point seven zero two four three repeating IG years of the ship’s passage. Or would it be better to do it in hyper-hop? The it-being is telling the being-not-of-it-beingness that these stones were carved many IG years ago, in terms of the commonly perceived space-time continuum, by beings not of it-beingness. The it-being is picking the eeaiiaya flowers. The it-being is drinking the laa. Mmm, the scent of eeaiiaya flowers in early summer!
 

 

    “Thank you-it, oh great it-being of fullest it-beingness, for allowing this humble being-not-of-it-beingness to gather the fallen nga’a-nga’a feathers,” says the being-not-of-it-beingness. “Please accept the blob in token of this humble being-not-of-it-beingness’s gratitude. The fallen nga’a-nga’a feathers gathered by the humble being-not-of-it-beingness are bringing many rafts of super-igs to the humble being-not-of-it-beingness’s account.” The it-being is fermenting up the laa. The it-being is doing mathematical calculations at Third School. The it-being is on a planet, not of it-being-planetness. The it-being is deep in contemplation of its happiness. The it-being is picking the eeaiiaya flowers. The it-being is wishing it was on the planet of it-being-planetness.

    The great being-not-of-it-beingness in charge of the ship is deciding to do the trip in hyper-hop. The it-being is fermenting up the laa. The it-being is gathering the nga’a-nga’a eggs. The it-being is deep in contemplation of its happiness. The it-being is picking the eeaiiaya flowers. The it-being is wishing it was on the planet of it-being-planetness. The it-being is deep in contemplation of its happiness. The it-being is picking the eeaiiaya flowers. The it-being is wishing it was on the planet of it-being-planetness. The it-being is telling the being-not-of-it-beingness that the condition has been observed before, in terms of the commonly perceived space-time continuum, in beings not of it-beingness. The it-being is calculating the vRaa effect. The it-being is fermenting up the laa.

    The it-being is giving the being-not-of-it-beingness its thanks for the blob. The it-being does not have blobs. The it-being has the blob. The it-being is fermenting up the laa. The it-being is deep in contemplation of its happiness. The it-being is picking the eeaiiaya flowers. The it-being is wishing it was on the planet of it-being-planetness. The it-being is allowing a being-not-of-it-beingness to collect discarded nga’a-nga’a feathers fallen to the silver sand. The it-being is fermenting up the laa. The it-being is deep in contemplation of its happiness. The it-being is picking the eeaiiaya flowers. The it-being is deep in contemplation of the blob. This story is called “The Story With the Nga’a-Nga’a Birds in It.” The it-being is happy on a planet very far away where the nga’a-nga’a birds are singing to two silver moons in a pink sky and the laa flows in the fullest degree of laa-ish— 

 

    The it-being stopped, since BrTl was sending loudly: End-ishness!

    “Thank you, Trff,” he said firmly. “That was a lovely story. Perhaps a better name for it might be ‘The Story With the Nga’a-Nga’a Birds in It That Tells How the First Blob Came to the Planet of the It-Being.’”

    “Oh!” cried Dohra loudly. “I see!”

    BrTl had thought she might. “Yes.”

    “Yes,” Trff agreed happily. “You-it does see, Dohra.”

    “So that’s a Ju’ukrterian story!” said the Thwurbullerian kindly. “Thank you so much, Great It-Being. We’re all most honoured.”

    “Most honoured, Great It-Being!” chorused the Feeny-Argyllians eagerly.

    “Most honoured, Great One!” squeaked the Flppu. “I could help gather the eeaiiaya flowers and ferment up the laa, if I was on the Great One’s planet!”

    “That’s a kind thought, S-Fl’Chuyilleea,” it said politely. “Did you-it enjoy the story, blndreL?”

    “Very much. It was most interesting, Trff. I wouldn't have minded hearing a bit more about the hyper-hop trip to Planet PG50831.”

    Kindly it sent her the calculations, and blndreL, nodding thoughtfully, lapsed into deep contemplation.

    “So, um, was the great being-not-of-it-beingness in charge of the ship the captain?” asked Dohra.

    “No. It means Yes,” it said.

    BrTl cleared his throat—cautiously, this time. “In Intergalactic terms, yes.”

    “I see.”

    “Have another small fermented laa,” said BrTl generously to his ship-companion.

    “Thanks, but this round’s on it,” it responded happily. It must’ve received an emanation or two regarding the paucity of igs in the ship’s account, because it amended carefully: “On the it-being’s account.”

    “Oh, good! In that case I'll have”—carefully he consulted the servo-mech’s menu—“a Chontigaumian Super-Duper Zapper-Whapper. Xathpyroid double shot.”

    “Nnru juice, fermented laa, qwlot and Huyajhangwanian brandy?” said the Thwurbullerian, emanating amusement mixed with disapproval. “Before dinner? I wouldn’t, Lieutenant!”

    “Oh, my constitution can take it! –Make it a genuine one,” he added pointedly.

    The others all ordered, but Dohra claimed to have plenty of ale left. “Um… I think I see," she said cautiously. “It was all happening at once, wasn’t it, Trff?”

    “Yes. No,” it said placidly.

    “That’s as good as it’s gonna get,” warned BrTl laconically.

    They are all said to be like that Dohra, sent blndreL kindly, apparently unaware that if Trff wanted to, it’d be under that crest of hers and through whatever she had underneath it before she could blink.

    Dohra bit her lip.

    “Have a very small shot of qwlot, Dohra. Humanoid-small,” suggested Forty-Four very kindly.

    “Um, maybe I will. Um, thank you, Trff,” she said lamely as it pointed a severe antenna at the servo-mech and ordered: “One humanoid-small shot of qwlot. –It’ll be genuine,” it noted.

    The servo-mech had brought all the drinks and certain beings had leapt on theirs like—well, clutches of mimm-torrs that had just crossed the Wurratonoonian desert out of reach of liquid for half an IG year sprang to mind—and measurable quantities had passed the epiglottis or whatever was used, when BrTl adjudged it time to say kindly to the puzzled young mammalian humanoid (female) in their midst, who, he was beginning to realise, had nothing much in common with his Captain except her gender and species and certain indications of a sense of humour: “Personally I find it best to think of Trff’s stories as concerning several individual it-beings, all doing things both sequentially and simultaneously, the sequence not always having anything to do with the movement of time as you or I might perceive it.”

    “Um—yes!” she gasped.

    “It left a lot out, this time round,” he said generously.

    “Did it?” said Dohra limply.

    “A Thwurbullerian couldn’t do that. Very clever,” approved Forty-Four. “Why don't you tell us a story now, Dohra?” Gently it removed the scarcely-touched shot glass from her grasp.

    “Ye—Um, thank you, Forty Four!” she gasped. “It’s terribly strong, isn’t it?”

    “Yes.” The Thwurbullerian handed it to the servo-mech. “Go on!”

    “Shall I?” said Dohra shyly to the company.

    “Yes, please go on!” they all cried.

    “Um, my story isn’t like yours, though,” she said, looking shyly from Trff to the Thwurbullerian.

    At this they all cried things like: “That doesn't matter!” And: “Mine was nothing very much!” And: “But do tell it, anyway!” And so forth.

    So, taking a deep breath, Dohra launched into her story.

 

The Mammalian Humanoid's Tale

3 

The Mammalian Humanoid’s Tale 

 

    Incoming.

    “Drop that,” warned Dohra.

    Incomi—

    “Oh, what’s the use? Yes!” she shouted.—Nothing.—“YES?” she bellowed, interrogatively.

    Incoming. To: W’t, Dohra B’Jn, IG ID CT00002578-1345872/684005-90B—

    “GET ON WITH IT!” she bellowed.

    Inexorably the comm-blob droned on: -W47259/00000044/02-F. Greetings.

    “What?” she groaned. This was in response to the “Greetings” bit, not the “IG ID CT00002578-1345872/684005-90B-W47259/00000044/02-F”, which was merely her IG ID. In common with many beings in the two galaxies, W’t, Dohra B’Jn was incapable of remembering her IG ID. Or of understanding what in the Asteroids of Hhum it meant. Well, “CT00002578 ” had to be C’T’rea, her home planet: every sentient being within the Meaning that was born, hatched, cloned or otherwise produced on C’T’rea had an IG ID that started with “CT00002578”. And certainly the Encyclopaedia claimed there were more than two thousand, five hundred and seventy-eight planets in the Federation alone, not to say the two galaxies, not to say the Known Universe, whose names started with CT.

    Dohra’s oldest full sibling (humanoid), W’t, M’t J, had once claimed that “W47259” represented their family name, W’t, which seemed pretty convincing given that every member of their family had an IG ID that also contained it. And that she’d never met any being with a different family name whose IG ID did. Though the fact that there was nothing to disprove it didn’t prove it had to be right, did it? And explain this: there were fewer than forty-seven thousand, two hundred and fifty-nine family names starting with W on C’T’rea! Unfortunately the Encyclopaedia, far from explaining it, had maintained a blank silence on the subject. However, M’t’s claim that “/02-F” had to be her because she was the second sibling of their humanoid nuclear family of their generation and she was female within the Meaning seemed pretty circumstantial, yeah.

    The Meagraw of Gr’mmeaya salutes you.—Dohra brightened.—The Meagraw of Gr’mmeaya responds thus to your esteemed communication.—Dohra mouthed: “Diplo junk,” but looked expectant.—I, the Meagraw of Gr’mmeaya, have no interest in immature beings. End communication.

    “WHAT?” she bellowed.

    Obediently the comm-blob repeated: Incoming. To: W’t, Dohra B’Jn, IG ID CT00002578-1345872/684005-90B-W47259/00000044/02-F. Greetings. The Meagraw of Gr’mmeaya salutes you. The Meagraw of Gr’mmeaya responds thus to your esteemed communication. I, the Meagraw of Gr’mmeaya, have no interest in immature beings. End communication.

    “Thanks for nothing,” she said sourly.

    You’re welcome, the plasmo-blasted thing responded politely.

    She breathed heavily but refrained from voicing her thought, or, indeed, expressing it in any way. They were impervious alike to brute force, threats, screams, or chucking down the recycler: in fact in the dim, distant past Dohra’s Dad had threatened to chuck Dohra down the recycler if she ever tried such a plasmo-blasted stupid trick again. Words to that effect. And didn’t she realise that those blob-driven pieces of intergalactic space junk cost MEGARAFTS OF SUPER-IGS? That the W’t nuclear family didn’t HAVE? Words to that effect.

    Instead she just noted grimly, once the humanoid heavy breathing had subsided a bit: “Well, that’s another good idea down the recycler.”

    Some ten IG minutes later her younger full sibling, W’t, J’n P (J’nno for short, C’T’rean-style) came in, and after the usual interval of mindless staring into space while he shuffled the huge plantigrade humanoid feet in their huge recycled Service Issue boots, produced: “So didja get another comm message?”

    “YES! Turned down AGAIN! And GO AWAY!”

    “Which one was it this time?” he asked glumly, not moving.

    “My LAST HOPE!” shouted Dohra.

    In the way of siblings—certainly on C’T’rea, and on any world of the Known Universe that had siblings, Dohra would have bet her last C’T’rean pfui (worth, not that the Intergalactic Exchange bothered to quote it, about one twenty-fifth of an ig)—his response to this cry of anguish was merely a stolid: “Well, which?”

    “The Meagraw of Gr’mmeaya,” she said bitterly.

    J’nno’s round, greenish and, not to be anything-ist, unpleasantly glutinous eyes narrowed. “Maybe he isn’t a ‘he’ after all.”

    That didn’t necessarily mean that the being in question wouldn’t want a shortish, blonde, nubile female humanoid from C’T’rea, for any one of a megazillion purposes, but Dohra didn’t bother to point this out to the immature male humanoid in front of her. “He IS!”

    “Um, well, what did he say?”

    Since he was perfectly capable of giving her IG ID to the comm-blob and since the plasmo-blasted thing seemed to be incapable of voice-recognition— Dohra took a deep breath. “Give me that last message again.”

    Nothing.

    “Maybe it’s blobbed out,” he offered.

    “And maybe it’s a piece of space junk due for the RECYCLER!” she screamed. “Play that last message for W’t, Dohra B’Jn AGAIN!”

    Possibly it got the point. At any rate it reported: Incoming. To: W’t, Dohra B’Jn, IG ID CT00002578-1345872/684005-90B-W47259/00000044/02-F. Greetings. The Meagraw of Gr’mmeaya salutes you. The Meagraw of Gr’mmeaya responds thus to your esteemed communication. I, the Meagraw of Gr’mmeaya, have no interest in immature beings. End communication.

    Then there was, not to Dohra’s displeasure, a puzzled silence. Finally J’nno produced: “You’re not that immature.”

    Certainly IG law allowed that W’t, Dohra B’Jn, IG ID CT00002578-and-the-rest-of-it, slash-oh-two-Eff-to-you, too, was an adult being (humanoid) within the Meaning. Therefore she replied shortly: “Quite.” 

 

    He thought about it. “Hey, maybe the Act’s got a different Meaning on Gr’mmeaya!”

    The thought had also occurred to Dohra; nevertheless she replied sourly: “Brilliant.”

    “It could! What being knows what they’re like over there?”

    “Possibly no being on this plasmo-blasted hunk of cooling rock laughably called a habitable world, Class 249-A,” responded Dohra sweetly, “but the Encyclopaedia plasmo-blasted well knows.”

    “Well, um, are they humanoid?” he bleated.

    “Yes.”

    J’nno was seen to produce a humanoid swallow, not in order to aid humanoid digestion in the wake of mastication, in this instance. “Um, was that really the last one?”

    “Yes,” said Dohra grimly.

    “Well, um, whadda we gonna do, Dohra?” he asked miserably.

    The rest of their immediate humanoid family had recently disappeared in a freak traffic accident: freak according to the C’T’rean Public Transport Authority whose bubble-train had become detached from whatever unseen force was ostensibly guiding it and fallen onto Dohra’s and J’nno’s Dad’s humble personal bubble, resulting in disintegration of said bubble and its occupants. “You’re gonna go and stay with Gramps and go back to Second School,” she stated grimly.

    “Aw-wuh! I hate Gramps!” he wailed.

    Yeah, and as far as could be determined, the taciturn old man hated him and Dohra. “The alternative’s Great-Aunty K’t,” she reminded him.

    Sulkily J’nno allowed he’d stay with Gramps.

    “Yeah. I’m gonna get a job,” she said grimly.

    There weren’t any jobs on C’T’rea. Not for IG-adult blonde female humanoids who had no qualifications and had been due to start a Third School degree in whatever the annual C’T’rean Third School Lottery declared she was fit for, or in other words what was left over after persons who had passed out of Second School with better results had got their choices. As Dohra’s Dad had been the sucker who’d been going to pay the expenses of this degree, not to mention feed her great mouth while she did it, and as the C’T’rean authorities were not philanthropists, and as Gramps had merely snorted when she’d suggested it might be his responsibility now— Yeah. True, he had made preliminary inquiries into the possibility of suing the C’T’rean Public Transport Authority, but even the public law-blob he’d consulted at the expense of a whole half-ig had been able to tell him that his chances of winning that one were considerably less than one in a megazillion, that was, risible. And refused to refund his half-ig.

    “You should of worked harder at Second School,” noted J’nno, à propos.

    “I would of, if I’d known this was round the corner, and SHUT UP!”

    As J’nno then did shut up, a glum silence was able to prevail.

    Eventually he said: “If I graduate Second School with, um, well, I might be able to do Space Cadet Training.”

    “That requires maths,” his sister reminded him nastily.

    “All right, I'll be an Ordinary Spacer!” he screamed.

    “If they’ll have you. –I know they’re always recruiting, J’nno, and shut up!”

    He didn’t shut up, he said: “You could be a Spacer.”

    “Right, and die in some pointless shoot-out on some primmo dump a megazillion glps past the Outer Rim that the IG M.C. thinks might have the odd mineral deposit or two! No, thanks!”

    “Ya might not haveta fight, ya might only be a, um, like an engineer’s assistant—”

    “Blob-polishing,” she noted sourly.

    “Yeah, well, there’s nothing wrong with blobs. Or a cook!” he produced brilliantly.

    After quite some time Dohra said: “Can ya choose, though?”

    “What, when you apply to join Space Service? Um, no, actually. P’trs’n, G’gg Y done it, ’member?”

    “I remember he told his mum his chief responsibility was arranging Phang-Phangian senso-orchids becomingly on some plasmo-blasted admiral’s dinner table, yeah!” she said with feeling. “I’d rather die on a primmo trying to steal minerals for the IG M.C., thanks!”

    “Um, yeah,” he agreed uneasily.

    Silence again.

    “Maybe you been looking at the wrong ads,” he ventured. “There gotta be some jobs in the two galaxies!”

    “Not for immature female humanoids with no qualifications,” she said bitterly.

    “Yeah, but ya not immature! Didja use the wrong code, or, um, I know! Didja give your age in local years, not IG years?”

    “That would make me OLDER, asteroid-brain!” she shouted.

    “Oh. Yeah. Um, be a Pleasure Girl?” he suggested miserably. 

 

    Dohra was about to wither him when she saw that the glutinous greenish eyes were full of tears. “They say it isn’t so bad. You usually get fed well. But the Playfair One Pleasuring Course blob costs a raft of super-igs.”

    “It’s always either qualifications or igs!” cried J’nno angrily.

    “Yeah. That’s life,” said Dohra sourly. “Welcome to the real Known Universe. But I like the cook idea.”

    “Ya definitely have to have qualifications for that! And it’s like, only Space Service that’d teach you for nothing.”

    “Ye-ah…” she said vaguely.

    “Space Service’d be okay! Maybe after ya do the, um, basic training, they let you apply for what you wanna do! That P’trs’n, G’gg Y, he’s real dumb!” he urged.

    “Ye-ah… Is J’nn’s’n, Shohn R still into those fake ID discs?”

    “They caught him that time him and Mt’hn, Wm F tried to go off-world,” he reminded her.

    “Is he?”

    “Well, um, not as such. I mean, he is still into all that blob stuff, if that’s whatcha mean.”

    “Good. Come on, we’ll go over to his place.”

    “The bubble’s all disintegrated,” he reminded her sadly.

    “We’ll walk. W,A,L,K. It entails putting one of those huge hind appendages in front of the other, bringing the other up and past it and putting it down, and then repeating the process—”

    “All right!”

   They walked. It wasn’t far, in C’T’rean terms: certainly within the same First School district, and in fact J’nno had originally met the brilliant Shohn at First School. When they got there the lift-blob to the J’nn’s’ns’ eighty-seventh-level slot was out of order but J’nno called up Shohn on his personal comm-blob and after a certain amount of shouting from far above a couple of porto-blobs descended to them. J’nno hopped on happily, so with a mental shrug, Dohra copied him. You could only die once, if you were a mammalian humanoid.

    Even if the lift-blob was out of order it was a very nice slot and Dohra looked about it with interest and envy but J’nno, reminding her sternly that they were here on business, dragged her into Shohn’s room and firmly ordered the door to Close after them.

    Shohn couldn't believe she only wanted some cook’s qualifications. Heck, he could do her anything at all! Like, a Pilot—“NO.”—She wouldn’t have to fly anything! Anyway, the blobs did it all for you. Well, a Full Surgeon?—“NO!”—What about a Full—“Not a Full anything! Can you do it?”

    “Controller in the IG Minerals Commission,” he ended sadly. “Yeah. You’ll have to wait a bit. And if I can have sample of your DNA it’ll be eas—”

    “Watch out, he’ll clone ya, soon as ya back’s turned,” warned her sibling laconically.

    “I don’t give a cptt-rvvr’s fart if he clones me a megazillion times! Take as much DNA as you like!”

    “A hair’ll do. Thanks,” he said, taking one. He then began to be disgusting with blobs and Dohra, conscious of a fervent hope that it’d work and she wouldn’t have to join Space Service and end up assisting their engineers with that sort of muck, wandered out into the main living-room of the slot and let Brwn J’nn’s’n, M B’th K’y, otherwise known as Shohn’s Mum, give her a lovely afternoon tea and tell her how lovely her parents’ and siblings’ memorial service had been. Oh, well. The raffleberry buns were good. 

 

    The blonde mammalian humanoid paused in her narrative to take a refreshing draught of Rwthwarian ale and BrTl noted: “I’ve never had those. Raffleberries, did you say?”

    “Yes. They’re nicer fresh, really, but the buns are quite good. You cook the ripe raffleberries up with some rau-mushroom sugar, or any sugar or sucrose substitute with a similar sweetness rating will do, and make a very thick sauce of them, being careful to keep some of the berries whole. Then you mix them into the bun dough and the culture-pan does the rest!” she beamed.

    It was all very technical; maybe she was a cook; how autobiographical was this story? “Um, are they a bit like blrtlberries?” asked BrTl. “My Captain often has blrtlberry buns if we go to a J’rd’s restaurant.”

    “They’re not blue like blrtlberries, they’re red. But quite similar in taste, yes. The buns aren’t such fun, though: they don’t squeak and deflate, they’re more, um, spongy. Do you know plush-moss? That sort of consistency. And sweeter than blrtlberry buns.”

    “I like sweet things,” he said on a sad note.

    “Please, have some nymbo cheese!” urged the Feeny-Argyllians.

    “Better not. But I might just have a super-maxi-galaxy shake.” The splendid servo-mech was at his elbow immediately and he said: “Have you got them flavoured with raffleberries?”

    Oononian raffleberries or Saunschiffhahnian raffleberries? the piece of space junk replied.

    BrTl rolled an exasperated eye in Dohra’s direction.

    “Ooh!” she gasped, jumping. “Um, Oononian raffleberries are the best in the Known Universe but, um, I’d say it’s highly unlikely they’ve got them. I mean, usually it’s only, um, admirals or Full Surgeons or, um, like that that can aff—”

    BrTl blinked casually at the servo-mech. “You’re right. They are Oononian, though: one of their plasmo-blasted chemical compounds, not even real berries. What about the ones from Saunschiffhahnia? They seem to be real.”

    “I’ve never heard of it,” she admitted.

    “It is a fair way from C’T’rea, in terms of the commonly perceived space-time continuum,” he conceded, forgetting his company somewhat. “Um, quite a few megazillion light-years, Dohra,” he said kindly. “They grow a lot of green stuff there.” He looked at her hopefully.

    “Xathpyroids,” explained the Thwurbullerian kindly, “have a retinal predisposition towards shades of green.”

    “Raffleberries are supposed to be red when you eat them,” said Dohra feebly.

    BrTl blinked at the servo-mech again. “Reddish,” he reported. “Ooh, mushed up with sugar! Yes, all right, one super-maxi-galaxy shake flavoured with Saunschiffhahnian raffleberries. And you can add a few flaming ooff-puffs to that, thanks. And I’ll have it with a phthyffia straw. And a shot of qwlot on the side. Anyone else?”

    All other beings were all right as they were except for the Flppu so BrTl ordered it a shake. It had a panic at the sight of the ooff-puffs but he’d been almost expecting that, and was going to put them out when he realised the Thwurbullerian already had.

    And the company settled back comfortably in its corner, or its seats, according to physiology, and the blonde mammalian humanoid (female) continued her tale. 

 

    Surprisingly enough the cook’s qualifications blobbed up by Shohn turned out quite convincing-looking, so Dohra paid the cunning little grqwary dropping half the exorbitant amount of igs he wanted for them, and left. His plasmo-blasted porto-blobs lasted out until an IG span and a half above walkway-level but fortunately Dohra and J’nno jumped down without spraining any appendages. And as none of what remained of the nuclear Wt family was ever gonna take any form of public transport again, they walked home.

    “There’s lots of ads for cooks!” discovered J’nno happily, his head in the Two Galaxies Jobs Vacant Service. Not to be confused, as he just had, with the Intergalactic Jobs Vacant Service, which only listed those positions available in the IG Minerals Commission (Civilian Auxiliary Arm), the IG Diplomatic Service (Non-Diplomatic Auxiliary Sub-Section), the IG Space Service Civilian Auxiliary, the IG Militia Auxiliary and the IG Civil Service itself. Up to Middle Administrator, Class III, after which you had to be a member of IG CivS to be able to blob onto its ads. J’nno had been confused to discover it didn’t list any IG Customs and Excise positions at all, not even Auxiliary ones, but Dohra had pointed out sourly that the reason for that would be, the IG C&E played it so close to their chests, figuratively speaking and not to be anything-ist, that you had to be enlisted in it to serve in any capacity whatsoever, however humble and aux— YES! Even Sanitation Assistants! And did he want to spend his life helping oversee IG C&E tidy-blobs cleaning out their disgusting Decontam. units? No? Then shut up!

    “Move over and let me see.” He moved over but she wasn’t much the wiser, most of the ads didn’t show you a sim-pic of the being that wanted the cook. Which sort of gave rise to the suspicion that they didn’t want you to cook for them, they wanted you to cook. Period.

    “This one’s a mammalian!” produced J’nno at last.

    “Close.” She was a marsupial. A Ballunder from Amtummerarioly. Not the native planet of the Ballunders, Dohra was almost sure. “Mark this ad and blob over to the Encyclopaedia under ‘Ballunders’,” she ordered the receiver.

    Nothing.

    “It’s almost blobbed out,” J’nno reminded her uneasily.

    “Yeah. –DO IT!”

    After a moment the entry for Ballunders appeared.

    “Marsupials,” discovered J’nno brilliantly.

    “Yeah. Shut up. …Well, they’re vegetarian. At least on their native planet.”

    “Yeah. Wasn’t that one on their native— Oh.”

    The receiver had switched back to the ad. Smiling nicely, very much in the mammalian humanoid manner, the sim-pic of the Ballunder explained: “I’m looking for a qualified cook to serve me and my nuclear family (marsupial: ballundroid) on Amtummerarioly for an IG-indentured period of three IG years. Duties are consistent with those specified in the IG Jobs Specification List, Subsection Blob Managers (Civilian), Subsection Personal-Family-Group Services, Subsection C-based, Subsection O/h Breathers, Subsection Food Preparation and Service, Choice 47, Para. (d), Cooks. In IG-legal summary, supervision and management of IG-definition-compliant culture-pans, pre-preparation and preparation of vegetable ingredients, service of food as limited by Para. 92 of the above Para. Limited pouch duties may be required. Pay and remuneration as specified by the IG-legally ratified Amtummerariolian Off-Worlder Pay Rates Regulation, Amtummerariolian World Reg. 60413/679,003,482, IG date 203,475-09-45. Free choice of igs or A-wurts, as in the above Reg. Time off as in the above IG Jobs Specification List specification.” Another lovely smile. “Plenty of family trips with me and the pouch-kinder to our local fairs and picnic grounds, as remunerated time.”

    “That sounds all right!” said J’nno eagerly.

    “Wait.” The definitions were flashing up. “Slow down,” ordered Dohra grimly.

    “That sounds all right!” he urged again. “See, board and lodging and ya get ten igs per IG day, that’s two Amtummerariolian days, that’s not bad—”

    “Will you shut up! …Yeah, got that. Next! Come on, come on, come on,” she muttered, fidgeting.

    “Oh. A-wurts aren’t quoted on the IGSE,” he discovered sadly.

    “Who cares, I’d take it in igs… Yeah—yeah, got that… Come on!”

    At long last it flashed up. “Pouch duties.”

    “UGH!” cried J’nno, recoiling.

    “Yeah. Well, it’d be warm, the Encyclopaedia says they’re furry—but, yeah, ugh. Not to be anything-ist.”

    “’Course not, no!” he agreed with a horrified glance at the receiver. Fortunately it only seemed to be displaying the ad. You never knew what beings just might be monitoring you, more especially, or so rumour went, if you happened to be blobbed onto the Intergalactic Encyclopaedia (“a Free Service throughout the Federated Worlds of the Two Galaxies and to all worlds about to enter or in pre-Fed status”).

    They went on looking at the ads. A surprising number of tramp trader ships wanted cooks. Though when one reflected that most tramp traders looked upon their cooks as auxiliary food, not so surprising as all that, as Dohra pointed out sourly to her innocent full sibling. Approximately five megazillion ads later, the job with the Ballunder had begun to look quite good, even to J’nno.

    “Ya right, it’d be warm,” he admitted.

    “Mm. But how limited are limited pouch duties?”

    “There’s no definition of that.”

    “No, exactly!” she said with feeling.

    “I get it,” he said slowly. “These trips to like, the shows, what did she call them—oh, yeah, fairs, same sorta thing—and the picnic grounds with her, these’d be in the pouch, eh?”

    “That’d be my bet,” agreed Dohra, sighing.

    Doggedly J’nno went back to the ads. Finally deciding: “We gotta narrow our definition.”

    “All right, no pouch duties.”

    “Yeah. Jobs for humanoid cooks, not on tramp traders, and no pouch duties,” he ordered the receiver. “Oh, and they gotta be IG-legal!”

    They waited.

    “Gee, that’s narrowed it down,” he croaked.

    “Mm…”

    “Um, ya wouldn’t wanna work for no Friyrian,” he hazarded.

    “How true. Is there anything in that specific IG Reg about not having a bracelet put on ya while you were cooking for it?”

    “For her/m,” he corrected on a dubious note. “Um… no.”

    “Right. Scrub that.”

    “Hey, here’s a good one! On an IG-accredited merchant ship trading on the Outer Rim—Hey, you’d see some interesting worlds, lots of them aren’t even in the Federation, yet—and they specify humanoid, lots of its crew are humanoids or Nblyterians. –They’re all right, ’member gradrfllG gr hagrelleR? He was in my third-year First School class, his dad was with IG C&E at the spaceport!” he reminded her.

    “His mum, asteroid-brain.”

    “Ye-ah…Um, she started off as his dad.”

    “She was his mum when they were here. I agree they’re all right; at least, hagrelleR was no different from any other grubby little male third-year First Schooler, if that’s your definition of all right. Are any of the crew Ballunders?”

    “Yeah, but they specify no pouch duties—see?” he said triumphantly.

    Dohra saw. But that wasn’t all she saw. “You asteroid-brain, J’nno!” 

 

    “What?” he said defensively.

    “This thing that’s doing the entire Outer Rim route—”

    “Yeah: great, eh?”

    “It’s a BHYLLOBLASTER!” she bellowed. “It takes more than the average humanoid lifespan for one of those to get even HALFWAY round the Outer Rim!”

    “Oh. Um, well, wouldn’t ya get leave?”

    “No. Read that definition there.”

    Taking this instruction unto itself—which certainly proved it was nearly blobbed out—the receiver obligingly broadcast: Leave: cumulative, to be taken at the completion of the Duration as here defined. Duration, One Tour, here defined as Term of the voyage. “Term of the voyage” is defined as one complete tour of the Outer Rim of the Two Galaxies (refer IG Reg FWTG 674,102,769, Subsection (j), Para. 3,492,701 slash B), that is, from Point of Departure (refer IG Reg FWTG 77,395,824, Subsection (a), Para. 23) and back to Point of Departure (refer IG Reg FWTG 77,395,824, Subsection (a), Para. 23 and Subsection (t), Para 79).

    J’nno, scowling, was requesting the relevant IG Regs in full but Dohra just sighed and waited it out.

    “See?”

    “Um, yeah. Um, but they might let ya go on-worl—”

    “Or they might make me scrub out the culture-pans as defined ABOVE!”

    A glum silence fell. After a bit J’nno sneakily blobbed back to the Ballunder’s ad, murmuring under his breath as the sim-pic replayed: “Warm,” but Dohra just about managed to ignore him.

    “Aw, heck, it’s gone!” he wailed.

    Sure enough, “JOB TAKEN” had flashed up and the Ballunder’s ad disappeared.

    “Ya should of grabbed it,” he said sadly.

    “Oh, shut up. I’m gonna re-read this lot.” Grimly she settled down to it.

    Time passed… J’nno wandered out to the kitchen and ordered the culture-pan to cook up a sustaining sandwich of nymbo-cheese, ooff-puffs and jolly-lollies on Whtyllian white wheat bread. It refused, being still under the influence of his late Mum, and instead produced a nourishing meal for two of wholegrain mulg bread, yuolla sprouts, C’T’rean water lettuce, and sliced mato-meat. Nothing like any definition of “meat” in the Known Universe, naturally. Matos were pure vegetable, and thoroughly revolting. For two, the pan reminded him as he grabbed the laden plates. 

 

    “Before ya go,” he said grimly, dumping a plate at her mammalian elbow, “remember to recycle that culture-pan’s blob and sell it for what it’ll plasmo-blasted well fetch, if it’s less than half a pfui!”

    “Yeah,” she grunted.

    “Look out: it’s mato-meat again,” he warned glumly as she reached for the sandwich without looking.

    “It would be.” Dohra chewed resignedly. “’Ook a’ thish,” she said.

    J’nno looked. “He-ey! Hey, that looks all right!”

    The job was on a pleasure craft (IG certified passenger pleasure craft, with the right-looking subsections, so at least she'd be able to breathe on it), running between Belraynia and Playfair One. Well, strictly speaking between Hinnover City Spaceport on Belraynia and Orbiting Transit Station 643 of Playfair One, but that was just as well, on the whole. Anything at all could happen to a being without IG Tourist Status that wandered around any part of Playfair One. But IG C&E Transit Stations were perfectly safe! In fact, quite probably the safest places in the Known Universe!

    Yes, agreed the receiver. Perhaps it had been blobbed up a bit by their emanations of pleasure at having at last found a likely-looking ad, who knew?

    J’nno had jumped, but was pretending he hadn't. “Yeah, good. Mind you, it’d be dull.”

    “The pay’s good, though! And what is there to spend it on in an ISLA Transit Station?” she said happily. 

 

    Her sibling’s jaw sagged. “Anything,” he whispered. “I mean, everything!” he croaked.

    Almost, agreed the receiver happily.

    “Not if you haven’t got IG Tourist Status,” Dohra reminded them.

    “Oh, no,” he recognised. “Oh, well, good! You’d be able to save up— Ya do get board and lodging, eh? Yeah,” he answered himself happily. “It sounds really great! So how long’s the tour of duty?”

    “Three IG years. That’s about five C’T’rean. That’s not too bad. And there’s IG-annual leave. No fares paid, though, but I suppose you can’t expect too much.”

    No, agreed the receiver.

    “And when I come back you’ll have finished Second School and you’ll be an IG-legal adult and we’ll shake the intergalactic dust of this dump forever! You’ll never have to see plasmo-blasted Gramps again!”

    “Hurray!” he cried. “Nor Great-Aunty K’t, neither! Yay!”

    Yay! echoed the recover valiantly.

    “Quick, apply!” he urged.

    “Yeah. Hang on, how do I—” The receiver was helpfully telling her. “Oh, yeah. Thanks,” said Dohra weakly.

    “Hey, I never knew it could do that!”

    “Me, neither. Here we go.” She pointed to Shohn’s faked-up qualifications, made a ferocious face at her sibling, and laid a finger to her closed lips. Nodding fiercely in complete understanding and agreement, J’nno watched breathlessly…

    Asteroids of Hhum! A pleasant humanoid face (male, possibly about their late Dad’s age) smiled at Dohra and a pleasant voice said: “Hullo, Third Cook W’t, Dohra B’Jn, IG ID CT00002578-1345872/684005-90B-W47259/00000044/02-F. I’m pleased to tell you you’ve got Two Galaxies Jobs Vacant Service job number C-O/H M/MR/MH/MF/MFR 232Z 605,721,455,686, specifications as detailed in the relevant Two Galaxies Jobs Vacant Service ad, as Third Cook aboard Pleasure Ship Silver-Ash Flyer. Welcome aboard. I’m P.O. Bates, Andi Wm. Here’s your Travel Pass, your IG Work Visa, and your Passport Validation dokko.” He grinned at her. “We’ll expect you in three IG days. You won’t need uniforms, we supply those, but you can bring up to six of your own culture-pans if you like, and one S/IG suitcase of luggage. No proscribed items, of course! Oh—and no pets: sorry. Call me up on this frequency if you’ve got any questions.” He whistled the frequency and disappeared. The message “JOB TAKEN” flashed up and the ad was gone.

    “Two galaxies,” said J’nno numbly.

    “Yeah. Uh—you can blob off now,” she croaked to the receiver.

    After quite some time J’nno croaked: “Three days!”

    “Um, yeah.”

    “Do ya think he’s the pilot?” he said excitedly.

    “No, he didn’t have merchant captain’s shoulder bars, J’nno.”

    “Um, no. I’ve never seen those funny like, circles, on his sleeve, before. But what’s P.O., then, if it’s not Pilot Officer?”

    “Um… Petty Officer, I think. They have them on the big ships, I think. I mean, they have them in Space Service but I think the merchant service would, too. They’re like, um, sort of administrative staff? There’s Chief ones and just P.O. ones,” she remembered.

    “Oh. Um, when he said ‘job number 232Z’ and that, it must of meant 232 zillion, eh?”

    “What? Oh—yeah,” said Dohra numbly.

    “I hope all that hasn’t blobbed the receiver out,” he said, eyeing it uneasily. “I was gonna watch the Match of the IG Week tonight.”

    “Uh—the sub’s run out, J’nno.”

    “What?” he wailed.

    “Yeah. Dad was gonna renew it just before,”—she swallowed—“the accident.”

    “Well, um, now that you’ve got this job, couldn’t—”

    “No. The funerals used up all the insurance credits. And Gramps won’t take you unless I give him all the credits from Mum and Dad’s savings account, and, um, actually it isn’t much. You could nip down a couple of levels to the W’sns’: W’sn, J’m and his Dad always watch it, don’t they?”

    “Yeah, only J’m’s Mum, she asks ya dumb questions and tells ya it’s all right to cry,” he growled.

    Ouch! “Sorry,” she croaked.

    “That’s all right,” he said bravely. “I’ll see if the culture-pan’ll do us some pudding, eh? And then I’ll check out your Playfair One Transit Station and that Hinnover place on the Encyclopaedia!”

    “Okay, J’nno. Um, no, hang on! If I’ve gotta be a cook in three days, I’d better get in some practice with the culture-pan!”

    “Grqwary droppings, yeah!” he gulped.

    Grimly she went into the kitchen. The plasmo-blasted thing ignored her every message. “Okay, Plan B,” she informed it, not caring if it was picking her up or not. “The recycler. It’ll be quite glad of a good feed; and given that blob of yours—or quite likely you are a blob, as some claim—we could turn you into something really—”

    Please give me your orders, Mistress, it sent submissively.

    Mistress, yet? Hah, hah, hah! Dohra did a short C’T’rean three-step all round the kitchen.

    “Okay: my first order is, you don’t obey any being but me,” she said gleefully.

    Yes, Mistress.

    “Second order is, you culture up anything I order you to culture up.”

    Yes, Mistress.

    “And third order, you tell me anything I want to know about cooking. Goddit?”

    Yes, Mistress. Would you like to cook something or learn something now?

    “Yes, you can cook up a real trifle with jolly-lolly jelly and C’T’rean Sweet Table Wine in it, and make sure the custard’s made from real grqwaries’ cream and boo-bird eggs, thanks. And tell me what all the ingredients are, while you do it.”

    The plasmo-blasted thing accomplished it effortlessly—effortlessly! Think of all the useful stuff she could’ve been learning all these years instead of Second School algebra and intergalactic mok shit like that! On second thoughts, Mum had probably ordered it not tell any of its secrets so as she could keep them to herself.

    “Right, well, is that trifle done? Thanks, it looks great. HEY, J’NNO! TRIFLE!”

    He galloped in, eyes bolting from his head. “Hey, look at that! Hey, great!”

    “Yeah. Apparently it can cook up real good stuff, only Mum never let it.”

    Yes, the culture-pan agreed. It waited until the platefuls of trifle had disappeared and offered: Would you like something else?

    Immediately J’nno ordered up a great plate of nymbo cheese swimming in caramel sauce, but to Dohra’s intense pleasure the pan ignored him.

    “It’ll only culture stuff up for me, now,” she said smugly.

    “Aw-wuh!” he wailed.

    “Never mind, have a second helping of trifle,” said Dohra generously.

    “Ooh, great! Can I? Ooh, great!” he said as the pan obediently produced it. 

 

    “Great!” cried the Thwurbullerian, the Nblyterian, and the Feeny-Argyllians kindly.

    “Great!” echoed the Flppu.

    “Great!” agreed the it-being. “The mammalian humanoid being (female) mastered the culture-pan! It knows of engineers who started off that way!”

    “Yes, great. –I don’t think I know this ‘pudding of light cake, egg and thick milk, with jelly and optional fruit,’” said BrTl thoughtfully.

    Dohra’s translator had failed to unscramble this, so she just stared at him for a moment. “Oh! Trifle? It’s very common on C’T’rea. Um, it’s sweet.”

    “Then I’d probably like it. Does it have to have the fluffed-up grqwaries’ milk on it, though?”

    “Um… Oh! The whipped— Um, no, but it makes it richer.”

    “Yes. My FW pack thinks it’d probably be too rich for my metabolism.”

    “It sounds nice!”—“It sounds nice!”

    “Yes, you’d like it,” she said, smiling at the Feeny-Argyllians.

    “I didn’t realise you were a paired being!” they chorused pleasedly. “Where is he?”

    “Who—” It dawned. Dohra found she had to restrain herself physically from closing her eyes. “No,” she croaked. “Me and J’nno aren’t paired beings. Um, I mean a paired being. Um, a brother’s different.”

    They looked at each other in bewilderment. After a moment Two got up and moved a little away from One. “Now I’m a brother,” they said, bending the long, slender necks and looking at her expectantly.

    “It’s very like that, but—but we don’t have to go round together,” faltered Dohra, looking round for help. The Thwurbullerian was emanating kindly interest, in the exact same way Shohn’s Mum did when she didn’t understand a blind word he was saying. The Nblyterian was emanating great interest in the jing-jing nuts. The it-being was sitting there like a ball of pale green fluff, not emanating at all. BrTl appeared to have fallen asleep suddenly.

    “Flppus are very similar, Great Mistress Dohra!” squeaked the Flppu helpfully.

    “Um, are they?” she said weakly, as Two moved back to its seat beside One and sitting down, rejoined it.

    “Um, you feel better like that, don’t you, One and Two?” she ventured after some cogitation.

    “Much better, thank you!” they chorused, emanating pleasure.

    “Yes. Um, humanoid brothers and sisters, um, siblings, are different. Um, well, of course I’d be glad if J’nno was here, but—um—it’s different,” she finished lamely.

    “You could say they’re rather like affines,” decided the Thwurbullerian judiciously.

    “Very like them,” agreed Dohra quickly, not allowing her mind to wonder for one instant if they were.

    “Now I see!”—“Now I see!”

    “Yes,” said Dohra limply. “Um, ’scuse me, I’d better go to the hygiene cabinets before I go on.”

    “Wasn’t that the end?” asked the Thwurbullerian in surprise.

    “No,” she said, going very pink.

    “But the mammalian humanoid (female) got the job! And mastered the culture-pan! Quite a triumph!” Emanations of pleasure and felicitation surrounded Dohra.

    “Yes, and didn’t have to pay IG C&E transit charges!” squeaked the Flppu.

    “Exactly. She’d be crew,” approved the Thwurbullerian.

    “Yuh—Uh—Yes, but there was a bit more to it than that,” she said feebly.

    “Really? Excellent, we’ll look forward to that,” said the Thwurbullerian pleasedly.

    “Yes. Are there more recipes in it?” asked BrTl.

    Dohra reddened again. “Um, not if you don’t want there to be!”

    “But I do!”

    “Oh, um, well, I’ll leave them in. Um, excuse me, please.” Dohra rose. The yellow Flppu declaring its intention of joining her, its masters resigned its double rein into her hands, and she went off numbly under the weight of her sudden new responsibility.

    After quite some time blndreL said: “It seems to me that that mammalian humanoid has never been to the hygiene cabinets with a Flppu before. –Just an impression.”

    “Quite correct, blndreL!” approved Trff.

    “They’re very useful,” said the Flppu’s paired masters happily.

    “Oh yes, so they are,” noted BrTl, concentrating briefly.

    “Yes, but— Forget it,” muttered the Nblyterian.

    The Thwurbullerian appeared to be deep in cogitation. It sipped its drink slowly for some time. When Dohra reappeared, rather flushed, with the yellow Flppu in tow, now smelling strongly of Oononian Attar of Roses, only 1 half-ig per squirt, it said: “That was a delightful story, Dohra. Thwurbullerian stories aren’t like that. If a Thwurbullerian story had recipes in it—not likely, but one can just envisage the possibility—if it did, then they would be in it.”

    The Nblyterian blinked. “Uh—oh! You mean one wouldn’t leave them out, Forty-Four?”

    “They would be in it,” it repeated.

    “A xathpyroid would never leave a recipe out,” BrTl agreed.

    “I see,” said Dohra limply. The retreat to the hygiene cabinets had given her time to think. Now she drew a deep breath and said: “Um, I suppose it’s really almost dinnertime. I could go on with the story after dinner, if you like. But, um, well, it was really almost finished, of course. Maybe one of you would like to tell a story after dinner instead of me? Or one or two of you, of course, One and Two!” she gasped.

    “Yes, One and Two would.”—“Yes, Two and One would.”—“Are you sure?”

    “Quite sure,” said Dohra in some relief. What with misconceptions over siblings, and BrTl only being interested in the trifle, and further misconceptions over whether stories had ended, and, she had had time to realise, how stories ended—and, indeed, some pretty fundamental misunderstandings about storytelling itself—! Really, if they were satisfied that getting the job on Silver-Ash Flyer and defeating the culture-pan constituted a—a climax, then it was probably better not to go on!

    “Yes,” said BrTl, sounding very mild, “it is dinnertime. Why don’t you tell us a story after dinner, One and Two, and then perhaps later, or tomorrow, if we’re all still stuck here?”—confirmatory groans, whistles, nods and appendage-waving signalled they all would be—“yes; then perhaps you could tell us some more, Dohra.”

    “Yes, tell us another story!” agreed Forty-Four kindly. “That’d be lovely!”

    Dohra looked doubtfully at BrTl. Slowly he closed one luminous round eye at her.

    “Yes,” she said weakly. “All right, if that’s what you’d all like— I’ll do that.”