STARSHIP OF FOOLS - (C) 1986 Jerry Kindall and Rex Crossley

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Jerry, Jerry, don't have a coronary!"
                                                  - Bark Of Platovia

     We emerged from the space-time vortex.  The inertia suppressors
failed, unable to take the strain, and we fell on the floor as the
gravity of Oorlon's sun pulled us backward.
     Zordoff was wrenched from the navigator's chair but managed to keep
the thrust levers pushed forward.  As I looked on in horror, his hands
began to slip.  One lapse of engine power, and we would plunge into
Oorlon's sun!  No, I remembered, we'd simply fall back through the
space-time-vortex.
     "The space-time vortex has disappeared," announced FILBERT.
     I panicked.
     From my vantage point by one of the braces that supported the
bridge's hemispherical ceiling I couldn't see anyone but Zordoff.  The
others had landed on the other side of the brace.
     Zordoff's hands fell away from the controls.  The thrust levers
sprang back to their neutral positions.  The mighty engines died. 
Zordoff began sliding back to join the rest of us.
     I felt something stirring under me.  I screamed in horror as it
struggled from beneath me and flew toward Zordoff's outstretched hand. 
Then I screamed again in relief when I saw what it was.
     It was Zordoff's staff! 
     He waved the staff a few times, and a softly glowing hand
materialized in the air, floating unaffected by the intense gravity. 
The hand moved to the controls and pushed the thrust levers forward. 
The engines roared to life.
     "For a while there, I thought you guys weren't going to make it,"
interjected FILBERT.  "But it looks like you will."
     The engines suddenly died.
     "Oops, I spoke too soon," drawled FILBERT.  "Maybe you won't."
     Melvin uttered foul oaths.
     "Slimy toad breath!" he cried.  "Unpardonable mutinous pigs!  Die! 
Unbearable vociferous skunks!"
     "Just a little joke, folks," giggled FILBERT mischeivously as the
engines re-ignited.  "You're going to make it after all."
     Melvin got that murderous look in his eyes that he gets whenever he
wants to kill someone.  In this case, the look was directed at FILBERT. 
I suspected that FILBERT would be reprogrammed as soon as Melvin could
stand up.
     The inertia suppressors cut back in and the pressure of the gravity
eased.  We were able to stand up.  Melvin walked puposefully toward
FILBERT, which was belting out a Barry Manilow tune at the top of its
electronic lungs.  The computer's singing faded quickly as it noticed
the purposeful, murderous, angry, murderous, infuriated (and did I
mention murderous?) look on Melvin's face.
     "Hello there, sir!" said FILBERT shakily.
     Melvin looked around for a suitable instrument of destruction.
     "What can I do for you?"
     Melvin spied a bazooka which just happened to be lying in a corner.
 Picking it up, he aimed it at the computer console.
     "Hey, let's talk about this," suggested FILBERT frantically.
     Donald danced in front of the bazooka, chanting "Shoot ME!  Shoot
ME!"  Melvin shoved him roughly aside into a wall.
     Melvin advanced on the computer console once again.
     "Uh, captain?" FILBERT asked nervously.
     Melvin sighted through the crosshairs and pulled the trigger.
     CLICK.
     The terrible weapon was not loaded.
     "Just kidding," snarled Melvin.  He lowered the weapon.  FILBERT
controlled everything on the ship.  Without it he would not be able to
pilot the ship (not that he ever could anyway, even with FILBERT).
     "I knew you wouldn't," said FILBERT arrogantly.  Melvin just glared
at it and threw the bazooka at it.
     CLANG!
     "Ouch," whimpered FILBERT.
     Melvin stalked over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a
stiff drink.  "Anybody else want one?"

                                 * * *

     "There she is, boys," said FILBERT.  "The planet Oorlon."  Zordoff
put the ship into a stable orbit around the planet.
     Melvin attempted to open a hailing frequency to the planet's
surface.  An awful squeal of feedback howled around the bridge.  "Oops,"
he said.  He fiddled with the communication system for a while longer
and succeeded only in ordering a pizza from Guiseppe's Pizza Parlor in
Denning, New Mexico.
     "Zordoff, would you please open a channel to Oorlon?" asked Melvin,
waving his hands in desperation.  One of his hands struck a button on
the console.
     The communications panel beeped.  In alarm, Melvin jumped back. 
The button he had pressed was marked OPEN COMMUNICATION CHANNEL.  "Never
mind," he told Zordoff.
     "Hello," crackled a woman's voice.  "Oracle's Office, may I help
you?" 
     "Uh, yeah," said Melvin nervously.  "Is the, uh, Oracle there?"
     "Do you have an appointment?" asked the anonymous voice.
     "Uh... no."
     "I'm sorry, then.  The Oracle is only available by appointment or
in a case of emergency."
     Melvin glanced at us, and we glanced back.  "Well, uh, this is an
emergency."
     "Well, then, why didn't you say so?  Hold, please."  There was a
click and music poured out of the speakers.  We listened to the Muzak
version of "Feels So Good" by Chuck Mangione and were halfway through
the Beatles' "Let It Be" when the music shut off and another voice cut
through the static.
     "This is the Oracle," said the Oracle.  "What can I do for you?"
     "Uhm, this is Captain Melvin Blunburger of the Arcturan Federation
Starship Glorkwinkle."
      The Oracle cut in.  "There is no need to use such language."
      Melvin looked confused.  "We need to talk to you.  Uh, can we
teleport down?"
     The Oracle considered for a moment.  "Yes," he replied.  "But we do
have a limited amount of space.  There's only room for four."
     A ruckus erupted on the bridge as seven people expressed their
unique Oracle-meeting qualifications.
     "I'm the captain; I get to go no matter what," put in Melvin.
     "Oh, and by the way, we're having an air freshening problem down
here," continued the Oracle.  "It stinks."
     There was a sudden silence.  No one wanted to go any more.
     Melvin considered this problem for a while.  "Okay," he said
finally.  "Let's draw straws."  He produced seven straws from his pocket
and turned away, fiddling with them for a moment.  Then he turned to us
with both hands holding straws.  "Matt, Donald, and Zot, you guys draw
out of my right hand.  The rest of you draw out of my left."
     Something about this arrangement struck me as odd, but I drew
anyway.  I drew a short straw.  So did Donald and Zot.  The others'
straws were all long.  They heaved a sigh of relief.
     "Okay, Oracle, sir," said Melvin into the microphone.  "We've
picked our four."
     "Go ahead and beam down, then.  Transmitting coordinates now."
     The communications console beeped.  "We've got them, Oracle, sir,"
said Melvin.  "We'll be down in a few minutes."
     Melvin, Donald, Zot, and I headed for the teleport room.

                                 * * *

     In the elevator, Melvin spoke to us.  "You really didn't have much
choice in that straw-drawing back there.  It was fixed."
     I had sort of suspected that all along, but I really didn't mind
too much.  I merely nodded.
     "I had sort of suspected that all along," admitted Donald, "but I
really didn't mind too much."
     Zot merely nodded.
     "I chose you because you're the most intelligent," he said to Zot,
"and you because you served in Jordann's fleet," he told Donald.  "And
you're still my best friend in the whole universe," he said to me.
     I sighed.
     The elevator doors opened and we walked to the teleport room.  We
donned spacesuits to cope with the foul atmosphere on Oorlon.
     "Now this is going to be a little tricky," said Melvin.  "We all
have to all get into there."  He indicated the closet-sized teleport
cubicle.
     I wondered why we couldn't just make four separate teleports, and
Melvin clarified that for me.  "It takes an enormous amount of energy
and costs a lot of money.  That's why people travel in spaceships
instead of teleporting everywhere."
     I recalled my first painful experience with teleportation.  "Will
it be as bad as last time?"
     "No," he said.  "It won't hurt at all.  Zot is much better with the
controls than I am."
     "You mean I suffered because of your incompetence?" I exclaimed. 
"Why, you..."
     "I didn't do it on purpose," said Melvin defensively as Donald
stepped between us, hoping for a fight.  "It's just that I never was
very good with the teleportation equipment."
     I sighed and rolled my eyes.
     "Besides," continued Melvin, "I did give you a W & W, right?"
     "Yeah," I shot back.  "And you said it would kill the pain."
     "No, I didn't.  I said that teleportation could be very painful
without the W & W.  I never said the W & W would help."
     I sighed and rolled my eyes again.
     Zot set the controls and we all crammed ourselves into the cubicle.
 It was like those instant photo booths on Earth.  Put a quarter in and
get four pictures in just minutes.  The object is to see how many people
will fit in one picture.
     Zot set a timer, and as it ran down, I started to get hot and
sweaty.  Sharing the teleporter booth with three others was enough to
give me claustrophobia.  Then, without warning, a buzzer sounded and we
vanished.
