Bill 4 - on the Planet of Tasteless Pleasure (9 page)

“Does what you say mean that I'm still cursed with the Grime of the Aging Marinator!” Bill moaned. Feeling at some deep subliminal level the thong that went straight through his neck, that was attached to a lot of really vital stuff. “Arrrrrrgh!” he observed.

“You must be positive about the situation, Bill. You have also met the love of your life, the woman of your dreams.... And she truly exists, if you allow her to!”

“Wushha?” Bill commented incoherently, about all the communication he was up to at the moment. Delazny nodded benignly, feeling that he was finally establishing communication, albeit at a very primitive level.

“You got it, baby! Irma, of course! The beautiful Irma!” He gestured toward the machines. “She's waiting for you back in the paradigm construct, Bill. And if you find her, the power of your developing mental capabilities might actually give her physical existence in this plane, just as that dead dove hanging around your neck has attained a reality of existence here.”

“Irma!” Bill remembered! He remembered Irma's lovely smile, the gorgeous curves of her lissome body, the delightful smell of her perfumed underarms! An EKG needle suddenly started bleeping with alarm. A hormonal count needle nearby suddenly swung so hard into the red, it busted off and flopped onto the floor.

Bgr's bug eyes managed to bug out even further than normal. “Gee!” was all the Chinger could say.

Dr. Delazny smiled smugly. Another curious expression crossed his face at the mention of Irma, as though he recognized the name, but he was veiling his thoughts on the subject. “You see, Bgr? I told you about the astonishing power exercised when in the strange human combination of hormones and psychic energy in our species called 'love.'” He turned back to his patient. “You can be with Irma again if you like, Bill. You can even bring her back here. But first you have to find her.”

The very thought of her melted Bill's heart; a sort of amorous coronoid. Irma! Darling Irma. More than ever, more than anything, She was his heart's desire. More than being a Technical Fertilizer Operator, more than owning a whiskey distillery on Hopworld, more than getting a new liver, more even than finally getting a normal human foot sewn onto his leg.

Irma!

“How do I find her, Doc?” he slobbered salivically, his eyes glazing over with love.

“Very simple, my boy. You see that so far we've been experimenting merely with your consciousness, sending it out into our paradigm construct. You were specifically chosen because of your very strong spermataphoric functions. So strong that they appear to overpower the conscious powers of the mind. You see, in short, Bill, the Chingers and I believe we have determined the truth about human beings, and why they wage war so much. Human beings, Bill, think not with their brains so much as with their gonads. Since culturally the Empire is basically male-dominated, the primary human emotion that governs it is sex. Particularly aggressive sex. Now, here's where the human brain comes in. Unfortunately for Chingers and the rest of the universe, human females are not mindless bovines. They are not really basically interested in the mindless and random promiscuous copulation that all human males want, deep down in their musty hearts no matter how much they intellectually deny it. In fact, the female of the species is far smarter than the male. But, alas, they too are riddled with hormones — albeit most of them far more Byzantine than pure testosterone — which creates a muddled soup of their reasoning abilities, and thus quite odd, albeit complex, little entities who don't really know what they want on any level, but work fiendishly hard to get it. Since the males can't get constant, raw sex they must channel their aggression elsewhere. Hence, war. Hence domination of the universe —”

“Including unwarranted aggression upon us peace-loving Chingers!” said Eager Beager.

“Exactly. I seek understanding of humanity, Bill. But more than that, I seek to venture into the very core of the human brain, to tap the collective energy of mankind, the Over-Gland if you will, and perhaps make some minor evolutionary adjustments!”

“Right on, baby!” piped up Bgr. “Like maybe cut down on the hormone flow. Volume down human aggressive instincts! Make the galaxy safe for the peace-loving races. Maybe then the Empire will stop shooting long enough to realize that the Chingers want peace in the Universe, and the only reason we're fighting is so we're not the 102,324th species that you blood-thirsty creatures have rendered extinct!”

Bill frowned. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. What this amounts to is a kind of collective desexing of mankind. You want to geld the human race! You filthy rotten Chingers! And you, you lousy bowbing traitor Doctor!” Bill frothed and writhed on the table, as the hormonally fomented tides of macho bullshit coursed through his cerebellum.

Dr. Delazny shook his head fervently. “Oh no, Bill. Emasculation is the wrong analogy. We merely wish to halve the aggressive impulses of mankind — and by finding their root in the Over-Gland, we believe we can do just that. And we've chosen you to do it. Look at it this way. Every male has got a throbbing, pulsating sex drive, right? So what harm would it do if every male had that drive reduced by half? Life would go on as before. Lovers would love and babies would be born. Only with that weensy bit of aggression removed maybe we could stop war and killing and wasting everything in sight. Not a bad idea, wouldn't you admit?”

“Not a bad idea!?” Bill frothed. “It is the stupidest thing I have heard since I was asked to volunteer to reenlist. Racial glandular castration!” The thought of giving up some small iota of his macho image so enraged Bill that his mind worked overtime. He suddenly felt himself charged with righteousness, and an unusual oratory elegance.

“No way, you sadistic sawbones. How could I allow that to happen to the human race? How can I remove, even partly, the source of the great achievements of humankind! From these instincts came the urge to sail the oceans of a thousand ancient planets, to climb mountains, to discipline the very elements into obedience. From these so-called hormonal aggressive instincts arose the desire to risk getting blown up in primitive spacecraft to conquer the planets of the solar system, and then venture out into the galaxy! You request that I betray the source of power that has given my noble race such vision, such ambitions, such imagination, such splendid dreams, such fertile karma?”

“Bill! Start thinking with your brain not with your ductless glands! We'll install you and Irma on a nice little planet where you can be a Technical Fertilizer Operator and drink to your heart's content, free too. No more war. No more Troopers, Bill. Oh, and we'll get that dead dove off your neck. And lastly, we'll give you the most marvelous foot, perfectly cultured from an expensive foot vat!”

Bill instantly forgot the racial ramifications of the plan and substituted selfishness and a quick profit in their place. “Okay. What do I have to do?”

“I told you the new foot would be the clincher, Doc!” said Bgr. “Let's see if we can get this ponging pigeon off him, and wheel him into the changing room!”

A ROLE OF THE DICE!

Bill stood in front of the full-length mirror, jaw gaping as he bulged his eyes at his reflection.

“What's with this? Why the crummy outfit and haircut?” he demanded.

“Give him another drink from the wine-skin, Bruce,” said Dr. Delazny, rummaging through piles of hats and garments. “You must relax, Bill. Drinky, drinky, don't say no.”

The satyr robot (the very one who had kidnapped Bill on the ocean front and dragged him down to this top secret Chinger compound) capered forward, and unslung the large goat-skin drinking pouch from its neck. Bill, who had never refused a drink in his life, was horrified at the doc's suggestion, grabbed at the skin and shot a dark jet of the glutinous, resinous wine down his throat. Pretty poisonous stuff — but it contained alcohol! He smacked his lips and stared at himself again in the mirror.

A little better, but still weird as hell!

Bill was dressed in a long robe of sackcloth. Strapped to his feet were leather sandals. A wooden cross hung around his neck partially obscured by the dead dove that was still pendant there. A cowl was bunched up on his back, and he held a wooden staff in his hand. Electro-scissors and depilatory cream had made quick work of his hair — it was now in a tonsure.

Worst of all was his woolen underwear, which itched like a plague of crotch-crickets. He scratched industriously at all the irritated spots and looked over at Dr. Delazny, pawing through the pile of hats. He was depressed. Maybe this was better than lying on his back connected with a bunch of electrical equipment, but not much. “You wouldn't like to take the time to explain all this to me, would you, Doc? And what about the dove? You said you were getting rid of it?”

“In a moment ... ah!” Doctor Delazny pulled out a hat from the pile. A skullcap, to be precise. He went to Bill and fitted it over his head. “This is really you. Sorry about the dove, impossible to remove at the present time. Now the good news, Bill, you are about to engage upon a quest.”

“Not another quest!”

"Another one — and the most important one. In the land of the Over-Gland, all is metaphorical. Now that we have jelled it into semi-physical state, with your excellent help, of course, we can begin to look for the core. Once that is discovered, we can then take action to deal with the problems it represents. First, however, we have to find it.... Hence, the quest. So, we have developed a variation on a medieval game of Ancient Earth. A brief aberration of certain adolescents called 'role-playing games' developed somewhere in the dark ages before the planetary holocaust. Fortunately for mankind, the discovery was made that the playing of 'role-playing games,' schizophrenia, and signing blood pacts with Satan were all due to a lack of certain nutrients in the diet. The simple potato, Solanum tuberosum, proved to be rich in the minerals that could control this deficiency. Free Fry Kitchens were opened all across the world and soon adolescents were gorging themselves on this delicacy.

“The mental disease soon cleared up — and the manufacturers of Clearazits acne medicine grew rich. However, I have determined that by playing a variation of the 'role-playing' game involving a team of cooperating agents in dealing with the convoluted metaphorical highways and byways of the human Over-Gland, the inherent dangers may be overcome.”

“A good chance,” said Bgr the Chinger, popping out of the skull of Bruce the satyr. “Gee — at the very least one or two participants may actually get through!”

“A team. You mean that you two are coming along with me?”

Dr. Delazny shook his head. "Uhmm, no, we've got to stay back here at Chinger Central and monitor. However, we've assembled a crack group to travel with you, Bill.

“This game I've called 'Drunkards and Flagons.' You, Bill, have been assigned the role of the 'Drunken Monk.' Bgr, I think it's time that we let Bill keep the full wineskin, don't you?”

“Gee — sure, you're the doctor.”

The Chinger popped back inside the robot-skull and banged away at the controls, causing the robot to step forward and present Bill with the whole wine-skin. Bill took a grateful drink and then flung the thing over his shoulder. “A team, you say. You wouldn't like to tell me just who else is going?”

A roar suddenly vibrated the very structure of the room. A seven foot tall, shaggy blond man with a beard strode in, wearing furs, a sword and a cap from which protruded two horns. From one gorilla-sized hand hung a half-full bottle of Jack Spaniels whiskey. “Women! Where are the women you promised me!” he bellowed, sniffing the air as though to ferret out feminine pheromones.

“Bill, this is Ottar, an ancient Viking we discovered frozen in the Over-Gland. He will portray the Barbarian Hero role in the game.” Delazny turned and gently held up a hand. “Plenty of women, Ottar. First, we make a movie, yes?”

Ottar's eyes glimmered with enthusiasm. Ottar grinned. “Ottar like movies. Ottar movie star!”

“Huh?” said Bill.

“Don't ask,” said Bgr. There are some things best left unknown. He turned to Ottar in his satyr guise. “Remember Ottar. You find the Fountain of Hormones, and you'll also find your precious, darling Slithy Tove!”

Ottar grunted and grinned. Drool began to foam from his lips, beaded onto his food-encrusted beard. Bill was also aware of the profound stench the character was also giving off. Where was the “loo stasis” when he needed it?

“Okay, who else?” Bill asked with a sigh. He had thought about asking Ottar for a drink, but decided against it when he saw that the liquid in the bottle was green with pink foam on it.

“An old friend, Bill. Proof of the energy-to-matter efficacy of my equipment!” Dr. Delazny stepped over to a wall and pulled open a curtain. A man lay sprawled over a table, a stein of beer in one hand, a cutlass in another. Delazny prodded the man awake.

“It's Rick!” cried Bill, astonished. “Rick, the Supernal Hero!”

“Yes, but he'll be playing the role of the Virgin Knight in this particular adventure.”

There were grating sounds as Rick opened his eyes. They were bright red and steaming slightly. He shuddered and clanked them shut, then took long and quavering gulps of beer. This time he opened only one eye a crack and blinked around him. His ruddy gaze fixed on Bill and he said, “Arrrrr. Don't I know you, matey?”

Bill turned to Dr. Delazny. “And this is going to be the team?” He took a drink and emitted a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

The other members of the motley crew were quickly trotted out for introductions:

Clitoria, the Amazon warrior.

Hyperkinetic, the Trickster.

And finally, Missionary Position, the Cattlelick Priest.

Ottar made a drunken lunge for Clitoria, but the seven foot tall woman boxed his ears soundly, and knocked him to the floor. “Try that again, you bushy bastard, and I'll stick your whiskey bottle so far up your whatsit that you'll need dynamite to get it out.”

Hyperkinetic was dressed in gay colors and he carried a lute, and had a despicable tendency to sing verses of a long and dull marching song. In a nasal monotone: