Bill, The Galactic Hero 6 - on the Planet Of The Hippies From Hell (18 page)

“Gee, Bill, you carry the dumb act a long way. Have you forgotten Sir Dudley the Time Portal? He whisked me back to the factory that made the old body, and they ground out another one. He's waiting outside and said to drink up because we have to get going.”

“Where to?”

“I'm glad you asked.” He took a pair of dark glasses from his pocket and put them on. “You like the shades? They are required where we are going next,” said Bgr-Elliot.

“Don't tell me,” said Bill. “We're going to a really bright planet.”

“No,” said Elliot-Chinger. “Actually, Earth has a very low IQ. That's where we must go. Earth. Hollywood, California, Bill. Twentieth century! To see a film producer named Slimeball Sid. Who has his own movie production company.”

They downed their drinks, waved to the barkeep — who snarled back — and exited.

“Jolly good to see you chappies again,” Sir Dudley said. “I think I've worked out the coordinates correctly this time. Shall we leave?”

For once Sir D. got it right. Their feet thudded down on a carpeted floor — and before them was a glass door with the inscription ESS-ESS PRODUCTIONS on it. Elliot hauled it open and marched in.

“You got an appointment?” the receptionist yawned, filing a sharp point onto a stiletto fingernail.

“I don't need one. I am Elliot Methadrine.”

“Phone first, come back later, get lost.”

“The same Elliot Methadrine who sent your employer a check for five hundred thousand bucks.”

Her chair crashed to the floor as she hurled herself forward and kissed both of his hands. “In! He's waiting! What a wonderful film it will be! If you will be so kind as to be seated, I will remove Mr. Sid's present appointment and usher you in.”

The receptionist hurried down the hall, rotating her rump quite attractively as she walked on her stiletto heels. Bill watched until she was out of sight, then dropped into a chair. All this rushing about was getting pretty tiring.

“What's this movie stuff about and what happened to the Time Nazis?” asked Bill. “And what about our mission?”

“After we lost you, it hit me,” said Elliot-Bgr. “We got all the time there is! I mean, I've got a Portable Time Portal at my disposal! We could deal with the Time Nazis from the future at our own pace. I went back and put the kibosh on the Bloomsbury writers, turned them off the horny-porny books that they were grinding out.”

“How'd you do that?” asked Bill.

“That would be singularly difficult to explain to you since I doubt if you have ever even heard of Bloomsbury. The hardest part was reading the copy they produced before the time change started them writing horny-porny. What I did was prey on their weakness for obfuscation and self-indulgence. Slipped them some material on deconstructionism and they were up and running.”

“Wasn't there a god involved, helping them along?”

“You smoking something I don't know about? Wait, I did hear something about that on the Deified Network. Creaky old deity named Zoroaster nosing about. We sent him packing. Don't worry any about him.”

“Well I'm glad the Nazis are gone — so what's all this about a movie?” said Bill, stretching languorously on the couch.

“Simple.” The alien lizard in the Elliot disguise paced on the puce rug. “Bill, you know how long I've been trying to stop human beings from warring with us Chingers, right?”

“I suppose you have. But you can't blame us. You are heathen alien monsters!”

“Bill, I'm surprised at you!” sniffed Elliot-Bgr, a tear in the corner of his eye. “After all we've been through! After everything I have tried to tell you about peace and no more war. For shame.”

“Okay, I forgot. I guess that was just the Trooper brainwashing talking. I should think better of you since you very recently saved my life in the subway.”

Elliot nodded. “That's more like it. I do think highly of you, Bill. In fact, it occurred to me that you're just perfect for my plan!”

“Your plan? Oh, this movie-star thing. Right.”

“Imagine, Bill! With the right technology and a Time Portal like Sir Dudley, I can film the Truth! I'm going to call it THE HUMAN-CHINGER WAR — starring you, Bill. Why, I might even name it after you. BILL, THE GALACTIC HERO. It's going to show you humans for the crazed, warmongering killers that you are — and it's going to make millions here on Earth. Not only will it make millions but it will cost next to nothing to make. All the special effects, the blood and drama and death will be real. I have a super CD disc here with miles of real footage of real space battles. Kind of a quasi-documentary, Bill! And you're going to be a star. You won't have to be a Starship Trooper anymore! You'll make enough money to buy a whole planet!”

“Barworld?” breathed Bill hopefully.

“If that's what you want,” said Elliot Bgr, “that's what you get. Sounds pretty good, huh?”

“Sounds incredibly fabulous,” a rotund man with a big cigar in his yob shouted as he came through the door. “Come in and be famous as well as rich. I'm Sid.”

The stretched limo slid through the main entrance of SIDSLI PRODUCTIONS and eased to a stop in front of Stage 3.

“This is it,” Sid said, waving his cigar in the direction of the sound stage. “We just wrapped yesterday on an incredibly intellectual — but still emotional, you know, for the ladies — blockbuster of a film shyly titled GREEN SLIME CREATURE FROM THE MARTIAN PIT. The sets are there, your leading man is here, the check is in the bank — so let the cameras roll.”

He ushered them through the double-doored entrance and into a darkened giant chamber. There were loud clacks as some floods were turned on, and Sid pointed proudly.

“What a beauty! That set cost a bundle, but Sid does nothing on the cheap!”

“Particularly with my money!” Elliot-Bgr observed adroitly.

“You said it — not me! But for quality you gotta pay. And that is quality.”

“Looks pretty crappy to me,” Bill muttered.

“Not only is your lead handsome and articulate — but what a sense of humor!” Sid glowered menacingly at Bill and chomped his cigar — then smiled insincerely, looking very much like a shark. Which, of course, he was in this industry of poor fishes.

The set was a compendium of every dim idea ever conceived by every half-wit that decided to make a bad science fiction film. Of which there were legions. Spark gaps, Van der Graaf generators, impossible machinery, large handles like railroad switching levers on electricity panels. And even more best left undescribed.

“The screen test first,” Sid said. “Let's get Bil up there —”

“That's Bill, pronounced with two Ls.”

“I'm sorry! A sensitive actor, I like that. Communicating passion one moment, compassion the next. My heart goes out to you, Billll! Your career is beginning — and soon your star will shine in the firmament of films outdoing all the other nebulas and stars and asteroids there.”

“Your astronomy isn't too good either,” Bill said sternly. “But I will teach you a thing or two about the stars, ha-ha, and life and war as well!”

Carried away, he stalked the stage, sucking in his gut, sticking out his chest, seeing not those before him but his soon-to-be career as an actor. Not just an actor but a STAR!

“Camera! Sound! Hit a few more kliegs so I can see the glint in his eye!” shouted Sid. “That's it. Ready on the right — ready on the left — fire at will!”

It was really pretty boring and dreary and only Bill and Bgr enjoyed it, one dreaming of acting glory, the other of the salvation of his race. Sir Dudley ground his time teeth in agony and instantly fell asleep. Sid had trouble seeing anything through the haze of dollar signs that danced in his eyes. The grips, electricians, carpenters and all the rest paid attention for a while because this was an example of the worst acting they had ever seen. Which was saying a lot. But soon even they were asleep, being silently cursed by the cameraman who was, perforce, forced to remain slightly awake.

No cliche of bad acting went uncliched. No dusty SF prop went unused, no spark of creativity was not instantly snuffed out.

“Take that — and that — you filthy crawling alien life form!” Bill foamed through spittle-licked lips.

“Sid — I gotta see you!”

“Cut!” Sid shouted and foamed himself. “Who is it? What is it? The red light was lit, we're shooting a masterpiece and you walk in!” He shielded his eyes against the light and made out two forms approaching.

“I know you! You are Bluto my driver-bodyguard. You know better than to do this. And if you don't, then you know, Sheldon Fastbuck my lifetime friend and accountant.”

“It's because I do know,” Sheldon said, his words dripping gloom. “Because I know the price of film, cameras, union cameramen —”

“Watch any badmouth crap about the union!” the cameraman shouted.

“I apologize. I'm upset,” Sheldon moaned. “I love the unions — my son's an organizer for the longshoremen — but I had to instantly if not sooner bring this heartbreaking news to Sid.”

“My darling mother in Miami! —” Sid shrieked in pain.

“— is in perfect health! Like your dear sister and your father in jail. I do not come about health but about something more important. I come about — the bank.”

A hush fell. The air chilled. Sid gasped and stepped back. “What about — the bank!” he breathed hoarsely.

“The bank called —”

“Tell me!”

“They called about a check!”

“Don't spare me — a little check?”

“A big check. The check this momser gave you. It was — a rubber check!”

“Bounced!” Sid screamed.

“As high as the moon.”

Now Sid's voice was cold as death. He turned, pointed a cruel finger. “Bluto — kill! These vermin — out!”

Big as he was, and heavy as he was, Bluto was greased lightning. Even as the word out was echoing from the rafters, he had Elliot-Bgr by the seat of the trousers and was hurling him through the emergency exit door.

“I say!” Sir Dudley said, waking with a start. “Hold on — you can't do that.”

“Bluto already done it buddy — so don't interfere,” Bluto grimaced, seizing up Bill even as he spoke. Bill struggled against the steel grip to no avail. Sir D stepped forward to complain just as Bluto pulled Bill back in a swinging arc — then hurled him at the door.

But Sir. Dudley was in the way. He recoiled, but it was too late.

Bill was thrown through the Time Portal and into the uncharted wastes of convoluted time.

When Bill awoke, he immediately noted two things.

The first was that he didn't have a headache.

The second was that he was stone cold sober.

Both of these facts were quite remarkable. He felt quite good physically, rested and fit. He felt in top shape, like he used to feel back on a holiday on Phigerinadon II after a good sleep-in. In fact, he would have just lain where he was, reveling in his good feelings, were it not for the fact that he suddenly and unequivocally realized that he hadn't the faintest idea where the hell he was!

Bill opened his eyes.

Above him was a metal wall of riveted panels. A soft alarm rang behind him, and he angled his gaze to take in some kind of instrument panel with dials and digital readouts.

He heard the sound of soft footsteps padding toward him.

“Well, then! You're awake,” said a clear, precise voice. “How are we feeling today?”

“Okay,” said Bill suspiciously, noncommittally. He looked up at the speaker, saw a nondescript man in a short haircut, a bland angular face wearing a doctor's smock. The man carried a clipboard, and this he consulted.

“Well, guy, whoever you are, you were quite a mess, internally. Trooper's tummy we call it. We can't have that kind of thing, no sir. So we cleaned you up chemically. You're no longer physically addicted to alcohol. That liver of yours isn't in great shape, but we didn't have another on hand, so you're going to have to make do with it. Just no more booze for you. Which is okay, since it's unlikely you'll get any where they're sending you.”

“Where are they sending me?” Bill demanded, sitting up in bed. All about him was the telltale antiseptic smell of a sick bay.

“From the hospital the Troopers are usually sent to Deathworld 69. And you're a Trooper all right. We know that. Who else would have vat-grown surgically implanted tusks, two right arms and a metal foot? You belong to us, body and soul. But the question is, just who are you.”

“Trooper Bill! That's who I am. I'm on assignment with the Galactic Bureau of Investigation. What year is this?” Bill was unused to thinking and speaking clearly, but it certainly helped in this odd situation.

“9435.24 Standard Galactic,” said the man.

“That's about two years ago!”

The doctor gave him a puzzled look. “Two years ago. I don't understand what you mean.”

“Two years from when I go back in time. Like I say, I'm undercover for the GBI.”

“I repeat, Trooper. Who are you?”

“Bill. Trooper Bill.”

“Yes. So your retinal patterns and fingerprints would have us believe. However, we checked the records. Trooper Bill is presently recovering from foot surgery. In fact, anticipating your awakening, we've got him on Visual Ultra-Light High-Speed Space-Transmission Television.” The doctor snapped his fingers. Two orderlies pushed over a television set. The doctor turned it on.

The picture was of a bar. Sitting at the bar, in front of a drink, Bill immediately recognized a man who was clearly himself.

“Pardon me,” said the doctor to the television screen. “Pardon me, Trooper!”

The man at the bar blinked, yawned, then looked up blearily toward the TV camera, toward them. “Wuzzsha?” He inquired incoherently.

“What is your name, Trooper?”

“Bill. Trooper Bill. Thash's with two L's, and don't you forget it, bowbhead...”

“Doctor Bowbhead! I mean Doctor Magnus Fraud! Intergalactic Medical Corps. Sit to attention, shut up — and listen. We've got a slight problem, Trooper Bill. There's a trooper here that claims he's Trooper Bill. We thought you might help us out.”

“What?” said the man at the bar, working to understand what was happening. “I'm here!”

“Do you recognize this man beside me?”