MELVIN'S CREW

A short story by the authors of STARSHIP OF FOOLS
Copyright (C) 1997 Jerry Kindall and Rex Crossley


I

     "All hands!  ALL HANDS!" screamed the young Captain Melvin
Blunburger at the top of his lungs.  Everybody waved their hands in
reply.  "Battle stations!  Red Alert!"  It was a tough job, being the
captain of the Arcturan Federation Starship Glorkwinkle.  But someone
had to do it.
     "Warren!  Hard to port!"
     Warren, the navigator, slammed the ship to port.  The bridge crew
found themselves suddenly sitting the floor, a sharp pain beginning to
make its presence known in their posteriors, as they all began sliding
inexorably to starboard.
     People climbed over each other, trying to get back to their battle
stations.  Melvin's drink sloshed out onto the deck, and he flung
himself toward the liquor cabinet for a refill.
     "Captain!  Are you going to turn on the stereo?" asked the
communications officer hopefully.  "This is an extremely stressful
situation, and according to regulations, we should have heavy metal
music blasting at us from all directions during crises like this."
     "Certainly, Raymond.  Certainly."  He crossed to the two thousand
watt stereo system and cranked up the new album from Bark Of Platovia. 
"I can only rip your arm off one more time!" screamed the lead singer of
Bark of Platovia, whose name was Snarl.  "That better?"  He returned to
the captain's chair while Raymond nodded his thanks.
     As the chair rose several feet so that he could better survey the
command stations, Melvin contemplated his plan of action.  The Giant
Blob of Nebulon Six was attacking them with its deadly, pus-spewing,
slimy, purple, gore-encrusted tentacles.  His men were cheering.
     "Oh, neat!"
     "That's gross."
     "Siiiickk!"
     It was a sticky problem.  In moments, the Blob would attach itself
to the ship and would begin leeching energy out of the lighting
conduits.  Perhaps he'd better ask FILBERT, the ship's superintelligent
computer system, what he should do.  He turned to Clarence, the science
officer.  "Bring FILBERT online."
	FILBERT, he reflected, was an acronym for Fearless Integrated
Literal Beer-Enjoying Remote Terminal.  It was perhaps the greatest
achievement of Galactic technology.  A machine that not only could
think, but was fun at parties as well.  Every Arcturan ship had a
FILBERT installed.
     "Okey-doke," said FILBERT, after assimilating the available data
and contemplating their options for several long nanomicromilliseconds. 
"Arm laser banks."
     Eugene, the weapons officer, jammed his arms into each of the laser
banks in turn.  "Armed and ready," he reported.
     "FIRE!" shouted Melvin, and someone quickly doused him with a
bucket of water.  "Fire the lasers!" he amended.
     Eugene fired the lasers.  The Blob drew back in surprise.  Its
eyes, each the size of a garbage can lid, inspected the ship
quizzically.  Then, unexpectedly, it screamed and fled with its tail
between its legs.  The laser beams hadn't harmed it significantly, but
they had startled it into remembering that it had a pressing afternoon
appointment with its proctologist.
     Melvin smiled.  "Good work, men!"
     It was another blob well done.


II

     Later, in the officers' lounge, Melvin and his officers were
partying it up after a long day filled with danger.  The Arcturan fleet
command reserved the toughest missions for the Glorkwinkle.  Melvin was
proud of the honor, but even prouder of his crew for living up to the
assignments.
     Other intelligent lifeforms in the galaxy considered the Arcturans
to be nerds.  This was quite true.  Genetically they were as human as an
Earthling, since their evolutionary paths were so similar.
     In the prehistoric period of Man's evolution, the nerd had arisen
as a superior lifeform, highly intelligent but misunderstood.  So the
nerds banded together, and developed manned space travel millions of
years before other hominids.  They left, intent on colonizing their own
planet.  At this they succeeded admirably, but they annoyed every other
sentient lifeform in the galaxy in the process.
     They had even established scouts on Earth.  Even now, at the peak
of the Earth's technological and social culture, the nerd scouts,
present in every high school, were misunderstood and abused.  Their
superior intelligence went unrecognized.
     Melvin joined in the merrymaking with relish.  He was well known on
the ship as the officer who could hold the most liquor.  He could gulp
down drink after drink after drink, the only aftereffects being a state
of total unconsciousness and a terrible hangover the next morning.
     They all had terrible hangovers the next day.
	All of them, that is, but one.


III

     "Where am I?" asked Clarence of the blank wall in front of him.  He
did not have a terrible hangover, but that did not surprise him.  When
he got no response, he turned to the other wall.  "Where am I?"
     There was no reply.  He started toward the wall, ready to beat it
up if it did not answer.  As he walked closer, the door's olfactory
sensors were activated and the door swooshed open.
     "Hey!" exclaimed Clarence, jumping back in alarm.  He was out of
range now, so the door swooshed shut again.  Clarence stared at it,
comprehension dawning.
     He stepped closer; the door opened.  He stepped back; the door
closed.  He had the situation under control now.  So what was on the
other side of the door?  His curiosity finally overwhelmed his fear of
the unknown.  He walked out of the door, which swooshed closed behind
him.
     "Where am I?" he asked a passing coffee-service robot.
     "Coffee," replied the robot.  "Hot, fresh-brewed coffee."  The
robot moved on.
     So that was it.  He was on the planet Coffee.  "Hey, wait up!" he
said to his newfound friend, hurrying to catch up.


IV

     "Where's Clarence?" asked Melvin.  "He should have reported for
duty an hour ago."  He shook his head, trying to clear it of the
hangover.  It didn't help; in fact, it only made things worse.
     "I haven't seen him, Captain," responded Warren from his navigation
console.
     "Hmmmmmmmmmm."  Melvin liked the feel of that resonating through
his skull, so he did it again.  "Hmmmmm.  Hmmmm.  HmmmmNnnnMnnnnmmmmmm. 
HmnmhMhmmnmHmnhmHmhnmnhMnmnHmnnnmmm."
     "Captain?" asked Warren cautiously, "are you all right?"
     "Hmmmm?  Oh, yes, I was just hmmming to myself."
     "Oh.  I thought there might be something wrong."
     Melvin came to a decision.  He would leave the bridge and search
for Clarence.  Nothing was likely to happen in his absence, so he
decided to let Warren sit in his seat and pretend he was the captain for
a while.  "Warren, you have the command."


V

     Melvin considered Clarence's possible locations.  Probably in his
quarters, with his covers pulled up over his head, suffering quietly,
instead of ignoring his hangover and getting straight to work, like a
real nerd.  And then he realized that Clarence hadn't drunk anything at
the party the night before and so wouldn't be hung over.  Oh well,
decided Melvin, he probably just overslept.
     The door to Clarence's quarters swooshed open easily.  Melvin
looked around in confusion at the room.  It was a mess, as if some sort
of struggle had taken place.  And Clarence was nowhere to be found.  He
had left his shoes on the floor right beside his bed; it was not at all
like Clarence to be so careless.
     Melvin became increasingly concerned for Clarence's safety.  What
could have happened to him?  As he turned to leave, he noticed that
Clarence's duty uniform was still hanging on the hook beside the door. 
Wherever he was, he was still in his jammies.
     Maybe he went to the restroom, thought Melvin.  With that, he
headed down the corridor toward the nearest facilities.  But Clarence
wasn't relieving himself, either.
     A snack, though Melvin.  I'll bet that's it.  Melvin headed toward
the galley.


VI

     "Clarence!" exclaimed Melvin when he found him, in his pajamas,
standing patiently in the line of coffee service robots in the galley. 
But Clarence did not respond.
     Melvin sprinted up and shook him.  "Clarence!  What are you doing
here?"
     Clarence looked back at Melvin blankly.  "Do I know you?"
     Melvin was taken aback.  "Are you looking for a demerit or what? 
Get into uniform and report to the bridge.  On the double!"
     Clarence looked quite bewildered.
     Melvin sensed that something was terribly wrong.  "Do you know who
I am?"  His voice softened.  "Who you are?"
     "No."
     "Oh jeez," Melvin sighed, convinced that Clarence wasn't faking it.
 "Let me refresh your memory.  You're aboard the Arcturan Federation
Starship Glorkwinkle.  I'm Captain Melvin Blunburger.  And --"
     "It won't work," said Clarence sharply.
     "What won't work?" asked Melvin, exasperated.
     "Trying to confuse me, that's what."
     Melvin was confused himself.  "What do you mean?"
     "I already found out where I am.  I'm on the planet Coffee."
     Melvin merely stared at him in amazement.
     "Here, ask him," said Clarence, tapping one of the coffee-service
robots.
     "Coffee," said the robot.  "Hot, fresh-brewed coffee."
     "See?" asked Clarence triumphantly.  "I don't know who you are, or
why you'd want to lie about where I am, but I don't trust you.  So just
keep away."
     "Clarence!  Stop that now!"
     "You keep calling me that.  Is that my name?  It's a stupid name,
and you're probably lying about that, too."
     "No.  Let me try this one more time."  Melvin drew in a deep
breath.  "I am Captain Melvin Blunburger of the Arcturan Federation
Starship Glorkwinkle.  You are an officer of the Arcturan fleet serving
as this ship's science officer.  Your name is --"
     "Lies!  All lies!" screamed Clarence.  "Keep away from me!"  He
turned and raced down the corridor away from Melvin.  The coffee-service
robot squawked at its abandonment.
     Melvin pulled out his stunner and shot Clarence in the back as he
fled down the corridor.  It was the only thing he could think of do. 
Clarence had obviously gone insane.  It happened to even the best of
nerds, Melvin reflected.  In his frenzy, Clarence might be in danger
from the rest of the ship's personnel, who might shoot first and ask
questions later.  Or he could be a danger to the ship, attacking anyone
who tried to tell him he wasn't on the planet Coffee.
	Walking to the nearest intercom panel, he called the infirmary to
have Clarence picked up.  And restrained, until a cure could be found.


VII

     "Well, Edgar, have you found out what's wrong with him yet?" asked
Melvin.  Edgar, the ship's physician, labored over his multitudinous
medscanners and printouts in the infirmary.
     "No.  I have been able to determine that his long-term memory has
somehow been blocked, but I am unable to determine the cause.  He is not
mentally unbalanced; he's quite sane, in fact.  But he's assimilated the
first facts he encountered after the memory trauma as being truth."
     "How complete is the memory loss?"
     "Complete, except for deeply ingrained skills, such as speech." 
Edgar bit absently at the tip of a syringe, accidentally poking it into
his tongue.  "Ow.  He remembers nothing of his childhood, his duties on
this ship, nothing before the moment when he lost his memory, which I
would assume was sometime last night."
     "Hmmmm, hmmmnhmmmnm."  Melvin was deep in thought.  "Is there a
possibility that he might regain his memory?"
     "Well, there was no brain damage.  Physiologically there's no
reason he should remain amnesiac.  But I can't say for sure if or when
recall might occur.  The mind is a tricky bastard."
     "You said no physiological reason.  What else could have caused it?
 Hypnosis, perhaps?  Have you tried hypnotizing him?"
     "That was the first thing I tried.  I got nowhere.  To begin with,
he's not a good subject for hypnosis right now -- too uptight -- and
when I finally got him into a trance he still couldn't remember."
     The intercom beeped at that instant.  "Captain here."
     "Bridge here.  We have an unidentified blip on the scanners at 2000
marks.  Request your presence on the bridge."
     "Be right up," Melvin replied.  To Edgar, he said, "Keep me
informed."  He swooshed through the doors into the corridor.


VIII

     "The blip is now at 1500 marks," Warren said.  "Closing at a rate
of 100 marks per minute."
     "Put it on the viewer," Melvin said.  Raymond quickly complied with
the order.  "Full magnification."  Raymond adjusted the focus.
     The other ship was extraordinarily ugly.  It resembled a basketball
with twin pickle engines mounted on either side for thrust.  Even the
colors were appropriate.  In fact, Melvin took it at first to be a
basketball and twin pickles until he realized that it was thousands of
times too large.
     "Captain.  I've never seen anything like it before," said Eugene.  
     "Neither have I," mused Melvin.  "Hmmmm.  Hmmnnn Mnnn Nmm.  It's
certainly an alien design.  And design means... intelligence!"
     The bridge was charged with excitement.  They were going to make
contact with aliens!  The crew had certainly never made first contact
with a heretofore unknown species of intelligent aliens before!
     "I have communication," said Raymond.  The image of the strange,
utterly alien ship on the viewscreen flickered, then was replaced by the
image of a strange, utterly alien face.
     The alien was extraordinarily ugly.  Its face was shaped like a
basketball with twin pickle audio receptors.  Even the colors were
appropriate.  In fact, Melvin took it at first to be a basketball with
twin pickle audio receptors, until he noticed that it was speaking.
     "Skinbakaru!" growled the alien.  "Vihuaz etryba chatarru!"
     "Activate universal translator," said Melvin quietly.  Raymond
flipped switches, and the audio signal was routed through FILBERT, who
decoded and analyzed each word, compared it with all known forms of
spoken language, interpolated the symbology, inferred unknown words, and
rebroadcast a translation from the gigantic bridge stereo speakers only
microseconds later.  For all intents and purposes, the alien now spoke
perfect Interworld.
     "Do not resist!" growled the alien again.  "We are your masters!"
     "This is Captain Melvin Blunburger, commanding the Arcturan
Federation Starship Glorkwinkle.  Any more talk like that and we'll
blast you into your component atoms."  Melvin's voice went through
FILBERT and was translated into alien growls.
     The alien seemed to be taken aback.  His small orange eyes
(miniature replicas of his face as a whole, with twin pickle eyelids)
blinked in surprise.  He gestured with one of his pickle audio receptors
and another of his kind joined him.  They conferred for a while,
obviously forgetting that the transmitter was still operating, and
Filbert was able to translate a few snatches of conversation.
     "... didn't work... memory..."
     "... try it again?"
     "... won't work... not asleep."
     "Direct attack..."
     The alien turned his eyes back to the viewscreen.  He issued one
last untranslatable growl, then the communication link was cut.
     "What was that all about?" asked Warren.
     "I'm not sure," said Melvin, "but I have the feeling we're about to
find out."
     FILBERT interrupted.  "It's a long shot... but did you catch the
word 'memory'?  The aliens may have something to do with Clarence's
memory lapse.  It sounds like they expected whatever it was they did to
affect all of us.  I further extrapolate that the victims must be asleep
to for the technique to work."
     Melvin was interested.  "I wonder why, out of all of us, only
Clarence was affected."
     FILBERT mimed a shrug, an impressive feat for an immobile computer
console.  "Don't ask me."
     "I've got it!  Of course!"  Melvin snapped his fingers.  "Clarence
was the only one who didn't drink anything at the party last night."
     "Alcohol may be a inhibitor for the alien brain erasure process,"
concluded FILBERT.
     "Let's not take any chances," said Melvin immediately, heading for
the liquor cabinet.  He downed three shots of whiskey and then passed
the bottle around while he chugged a couple of beers.  "Drink some;
thass an orderrrrr," his nerd metabolism making the effects of the
alcohol obvious almost immediately.
     FILBERT continued.  "I am analyzing all electromagnetic signals
received last night.  I will send the data I gather to the infirmary so
that Edgar can work on getting Clarence's memory back.
     "Meanwhile, consider that the aliens mentioned a direct attack."
     "Heh," burped Melvin.  "We'll dribble 'em up and down the court."


IX

     "They're comin' at us," reported Warren.  "Fass, too.  Range of
nine hundred marks and closin' at two hunnerd marks per second."
     "Raise th' shields," said Melvin.
     "Shielssup," replied Eugene.  "I'm readin a charge in their
armamen'.  The're gettin ready t' fire."
     "Gethiss thing movin," ordered Melvin, sipping at his martini.
     "Laser bankss armden ready," Eugene said, pulling his arms out of
the activation slots.  "Locked 'n target."  He hiccupped.
     "Ready... aim..." The alien ship performed virtually impossible
maneuvers, almost as if they were showing off; it was amazing what twin
pickle engines could do.  "Fire lasers!"  The laser banks fired but
missed; the alien ship zigzagged out of the way.
     "Evasive m'nuvers!" called Melvin quickly.  The other ship fired,
grazing one of the deflector shields.  Eugene's status board lit up with
the damage totals.  "Minimal damage, Cap'n."
     "D'we still have those old Pinhead Missiles?" asked Melvin. 
Pinhead Missiles were totally obsolete.  Every known spacegoing race had
developed shields against them.  But this race wasn't a known race.
     "Yes, sir," replied Eugene with a lopsided smile.  He armed the
Pinheads, catching Melvin's idea.
     The alien ship made another strafing run.  Melvin waved his arms. 
"Fire th' missiles!"
     "Mishiles away!" reported Eugene.
     The Pinhead Missiles worked their way toward the alien ship, locked
on target.  They slipped between the layers of energy shielding and
penetrated to the hull, puncturing it.  And the alien spaceship slowly
deflated.
     "We got 'em!" whooped Melvin.  The other ship was spinning
uncontrollably in circles now.  He gulped his martini.
     "I'm still readin' life on board," reported Warren.  "They're not
dead."
     "Open a commyounic, commyou, er, whatever, channel," said Melvin,
and Raymond obliged.  "Take that!" shouted Melvin.
     "You have won," muttered the alien captain.  "We have been
defeated."
     "But --" started Melvin.  "But why'dya attack us in th' first
place?  I mean, what've we ever done ta ya?"
     "Nothing!  Don't worry about it.  It is just our way of life, a
centuries-old tradition that we, as the last surviving Xyxzxyx in the
known universe, follow religiously.  We erase peoples' brains and then
eat their ships.  But you have defeated us.  You are the first race to
ever prove cunning enough to do so.  According to tradition, there is
only one thing I can do.  To you, the victor, I give my life.  And the
lives of my crew."  The basketball seemed to smile.  "Perhaps in another
life we could have been drinking buddies."
     "No!" cried Melvin when he realized what the alien captain was
about to do, but it was too late.  The creature had already produced a
sharp knife and punctured his own head.  He slowly deflated until he was
no more than an empty shell on the deck.  Then the communication channel
was cut off.  The viewscreen showed that the alien ship had destroyed
itself.
     Melvin passed out.


X

     Time passed.  When Melvin woke up, he was in the infirmary, lying
on a table next to Clarence.  Edgar was standing watchfully over him.
     "I guess you wanted to be really safe against that brain erasure
thing," Edgar said.  "I've never seen anyone overdose on alcohol before.
 They always pass out first."
     "Speaking of that..." said Melvin, blinking against the light.
     "Yes," confirmed Edgar.  "FILBERT was correct.  He managed to
isolate the electromagnetic signal that the enemy ship broadcast to us
while we were sleeping.  It was a hypnotic beam; we were able to
discover a countersignal which unlocked Clarence's hidden memories.  But
as a side effect, he remembers nothing of what happened to him today."
     "All in all, it was a very effective weapon," Melvin commented.
     "Yes.  I understand that FILBERT has designed a working model of it
for our own fleet.  He's naming it after you: The Blun Gun."
     "Tell him to erase it from his memory circuits," said Melvin.  "I
don't want any weapons named after me, especially that one.  I'm a man
of peace.  Unless we're being attacked, of course."
     "I sort of thought you'd see it that way," replied Edgar.  He
turned to Clarence.  "How are you doing, Mr. Coffee?"
     Clarence winced.  "I guess I'm going to have to live with that
nickname for the rest of my life."
     "Probably," Edgar agreed cheerfully.
     Clarence looked sheepishly at Melvin.  "Look, Captain, I'm sorry
for the trouble I've caused.  I just didn't remember.  I'm sorry."
     Melvin's face took on that strange look that he always got when he
was trying to be grudgingly forgiving.  "It's not your fault.  Just
don't let it happen again."  He smiled to show that he was just kidding.


XI

     "Where to, Captain?"
     Melvin pondered the question.  The universe was a big place, and
after today's triumph, the Arcturan fleet command had basically given
him a license to take the ship wherever he wanted to.  His mission: to
seek out strange alien life forms and determine new ways to party.  But
he'd had enough of aliens for the time being.  He finally decided on his
destination.
     "Let's go to Earth."  A good solid party might be just what those
stuffy Earthlings needed, he thought.
     The crew cheered as the ship rotated around an imaginary axis, into
hyperspace.  They were off, in every sense of the word.


                                THE END

