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

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"It's not that I'm afraid to die, it's just that I don't want to be
there when it happens."
                                                       - Woody Allen

     Corporal Stemplebladder was being held at knifepoint.  The knifeman
had not spoken, had not moved; he simply stood there, pressing a knife
to Stemplebladder's shoulder.
     Stemplebladder could feel the hot breath of the attacker on his
neck.
     He dared to move.  After all, he was a military man, and military
men took action.  Besides that, he was getting uncomfortable, and he had
to use the bathroom.  He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with air,
preparing to make his move.
     As Stemplebladder filled his lungs, his chest popped the cabinet
door open and he fell out unceremoniously onto the floor.  Groaning, he
looked up.
     Dozens of sharp kitchen utensils glinted at him from inside the
cabinet.  He groaned and slapped his forehead.
     He stood up cautiously, and looked around.  This area looked like
the ship's galley, with several stoves and refrigerators and long
cutting tables and instant food synthesizers and microwave ovens.  All
in all, not too different from the galley on Jordann's ship, except that
this one did not reek of pickles.
     Or this could be the operating room.  He wasn't sure.
     He walked awkwardly through the swinging doors, needing to relieve
himself.  He emerged into what looked like an enormous mess hall.  Or it
could be the waiting room.  He wasn't sure.
     He waddled between the rows of tables as fast as he could.  Finally
he reached the hallway, and moved rapidly toward what he hoped was the
nearest restroom.

                                 * * *

     Zordoff and I were just finishing the rite of derogation when
Chester and Donald walked by.  Noticing that the door had been blown off
its hinges, they walked back and peeked cautiously around the door
frame.  They saw Zordoff and I doing what appeared to be a strange
dance, and, in fact, was.  The rite of derogation bore a strong
resemblance to slam dancing.
     Noticing that they were noticing us, I waved to them.  "Hi guys!"
     Chester waved back.
     "What are you guys doing here?" Donald asked.
     "Well," I started, "Zordoff and the sorceress from Jordann's ship
were having a magician's duel when I mysteriously appeared in the middle
of it and I, being the Chosen One, and having magically discovered how
to use my magic powers, I, with one bolt of fantastic magic energy,
singlehandedly defeated the sorceress and saved Zordoff, and..."
     Donald cut my ego trip short.  "Apparently you have confused me
with someone who cares," he said.  "Have you seen any soldiers around
here lately?  I was almost killed by one but Chester accidentally bumped
him off."
     "No," I told him.  "Nobody."
     "Sellftof!"
     Suddenly I came down off my ego trip as I realized that Jordann's
ship was sitting there in space, full of soldiers, still operational,
ready to blast us into nothingness if something went wrong with the
boarding party.  It was a miracle that they hadn't already sent over a
squad of soldiers.  That ship had to be eliminated.  I activated one of
the viewscreens that hadn't been totally destroyed by my awesome magic
blast and focused it on Jordann's ship.
     "We have to do something about that," I said, indicating the
monstrous bulk of Jordann's flagship on the viewscreen.
     Chester gasped.
     Zordoff's face took on a shocked expression, and his body shook all
over, as if he were gasping.
     Donald said, "Oh boy!" and rubbed his hands together in
anticipation.
     We discussed possible plans for a while, and eventually decided
that Donald would carry explosives to Jordann's ship and blow it to
smithereens.  Donald was enthusiastic about the plan.  There were, of
course, other ways to do the job, but none were as dangerous.  And this
plan had the advantage of surprise.
     "Can you imagine me and about two tons of explosive on that ship?"
asked Donald excitedly.  "I'd never survive that!"
     "But won't you get killed?" asked Chester, puzzled.
     Donald scowled.  "That's the idea, lamebrain."
     I saw a flurry of activity out of the corner of my eye and turned
to see Zordoff waving his arms and legs frantically to get my attention
(he was able to wave his legs because he was levitating).  When he saw
that he had my attention, he began pointing at himself, then at me, then
at my pocket, then making a strange circular symbol in the air with his
finger and thumb, which looked remarkably like...
     The Orb!  I pulled the glowing Orb from my pocket.  Zordoff's
outstretched hand was quivering impatiently.  I dropped the Orb into it.
     "MATT BAKER!" boomed a powerful bass voice, coming from nowhere,
and yet from everywhere.  "Oops!" it rumbled, then was silent.  Finally
the voice sounded again, this time less intense in tone and volume. 
"Sorry, I haven't spoken for such a long time.  It may take me a while
to get the hang of it."
     "L-lord?  Is that you?" I asked, staring upward toward the apparent
source of the voice.  I was certain I was about to meet my maker.
     "It's Zordoff, you jerk!" Donald was pointing at Zordoff, who was
was balancing the spinning Orb on his fingertip, like an alien Harlem
Globetrotter.  I stared in amazement.  Zordoff was growing a
full-featured face.
     "The Orb has renewed my magic," he said.  "I can now communicate
with lower life forms."
     "Who?" asked Chester.
     "He means us, garbage-head!" Donald snarled.
     "Uh..."  I started, slipping back into my old habit of being unable
to start a simple sentence.  "Uhh... what, exactly, did, uh, what other
kinds of powers did you have?  And how did you lose them?"
     Zordoff shrugged.  "I was once a master of illusion.  But then my
magic powers were destroyed in a duel with Zordon, my evil twin
stepcousin.  I was exiled because of my defeat."  He smiled.  "Now the
Orb has restored my powers."  He tossed the Orb back to me.  "I am
grateful."
     I caught the Orb neatly, not because I tried to, but because it
homed in on my palm.  "Congratulations," I told Zordoff.
     "Now," said Zordoff, "back to the matter at hand.  Donald has
volunteered to teleport over to Jordann's ship and blow it up.  A
dangerous, suicidal, insane plan."  He smiled -- I mean, the illusion
that looked like a face smiled.  
     "I agree," I agreed.
     "So let's go to the teleporter room," suggested Donald.
     We went.

                                 * * *

     Xorn materialized in one of the airlocks.  This secluded location
was a perfect place to compose his thoughts and conceive a plan.
     He keyed the inner door, hoping Melvin still had that habit of
leaving his spaceship unlocked.  He did; the door swung open without
protest.
     Xorn stepped in, hearing the fading strains of a strange, alien
bagpipe melody.  It had been a long time since he had played that song. 
It brought back warm memories of his Pied Piper days.
     He followed the music, hoping it would lead him to Melvin.  That
nerd.

