(c) 1992 George Dubinky


INTERGALACTIC LANGUAGE MERCENARY


A Novel by

George Dubinky


CHAPTER 1


	Intergalactic language mercenary. I had thought about	becoming one for years; perhaps it was time. Earth's recession was hitting home. My home. Pounding at the door like internal security. That was my excuse. Not a bad one either, it being true. My contract spouse believed it. Why not? Excuse my language, but futhark! Even Erotical pills stretched the budget. That was the last straw, she said. Natural? Like an animal?
	I didn't point out the obvious. She was young, brought up in a world where babies came from test tubes and the only animals left were domesticated, genetically altered food factories fed their nutrients through a tube. That man was an animal seemed as impossible as a clear day.
	I couldn't blame her. There weren't many reminders that humans were animals. Maybe we weren't anymore. We had came, we had saw, we had conquered.
	But poverty wasn't my true problem. I was bored. Futharking bored. While I never seemed to catch up with the ever increasing life-extending technologies -- every time I found a new way to abuse my body, they found a cure -- it felt my life was passing me by.
	Whiz, whiz, whiz.
	Not that I was old; a robust ninety-nine in Earth years. Half the way? Oh, an organ had failed here and there, but my harvestclones were healthy. I was running out
of lungs, however. Those things go fast.
	My nanomachines worked around the clock, chomping away
at the sticky plaque the deathsticks and cow flesh caused. I contained the new model; self replicating. probably would live long after I died.
	If I ever did. Who can tell nowadays? It used to be a sure thing, I'm told.
	I swear I can feel those impossibly small machines roaming my circulatory system, munching away, fulfilling their programs. Happy little critters. Plenty of food; I do my best.
	Oh, to have a program, a purpose!
	I was bored, without a purpose. Perhaps that is better than bored with a purpose.  I wouldn't know, though.
	To tell the truth, credits were low. My salary had not kept pace with inflation, and my various vices were an eternal drain that grew larger with each sin tax. Sin tax? One man's sin is another's sacrament.
	I should vote sometime.
	At the very least, teaching Earther, Earth's global language, would increase my income. Plenty of demand, if you were willing to leave the solar system. Besides the high wages, my friends had beamed me that you had lots of free time. Working hours were half the average Earth four. Twice the pay with half the work. Sounded good.
	My peer group had made the jump. Not to a well-developed planet like Zippon, the closest thing to civilization in the Brim system. Zippon required a contract, stability and a work history. Even job skills. Thus the peer group was on Peitou.
	On Peitou, everything was illegal, but nothing was against the law. Its proximity to Mongkut, on which everything is legal and nothing is against the law, couldn't hurt.
	Or my friends said. God, or reasonable facsimile rest their merry souls.

CHAPTER 2

	Quitting my job at the insurance company would be easy, if I could only do it. In charge of bodily injury settlement expert programs that argued with plaintiff bodily injury expert programs, the company kept me around to brag about a human in the system.
	I couldn't decide if I wanted to make the jump; a cockroach trapped in the light, knowing that boot was coming down. High pay, adventure, and travel versus boredom, health insurance, and retirement benefits. A harder choice than it sounds. At the rate modern science was increasing life expectancy and employers minimum retirement age, I'd never see retirement benefits anyway.
	I was resting in my ergonomically designed workpod, mind flip-flopping like that last dolphin in an illegal drift net, when my cyberwatch beeped, holopic light flashing. Hmmm. Perhaps the current contract spouse wanted to apologize for my behavior last night, as she often did. Aiming at an empty space between two Kray supercomputers, I activated the hologram.
	A ragged rock and roll band filled the room, their unorganized yelling drowning out what music there was. The band pranced about, sweating profusely, obviously in a very hot, humid climate. Their clothes were alien, except for my friend Neon, in khaki shorts and a ragged T-shirt with a cartoon character on it that I didn't recognize, Fido Dildo" or something. Also, Manchild was naked. Like always.
 	I didn't recognize the guitar player, but he appeared an Earthling, with his long, blonde hair.
	Gramps, a friend since cognition reared its ugly head, raised his arms like a perspiring Jesus. The band quieted, except the guitar player. Not only was he on another world, but in his own. His concentration was focused on his fingers, and they weren't going to stop. Gramps gave up, and twiddled on the sixteen track recorder and synthesizer on his wrist. A screaming crowd filled the air. Gramps walked to a microphone.
	"Ladies and Gentlemen ... The Peer Group from Peito." Gramps fiddled again with his synthesizer and the synthetic crowd went wild.
	Intox -- alcohol -- smiled in the band's sweat, seemingly staining the white floor as it fell, but, of course, it never hit the ground. Holopic, after all. I swore I could smell the intox on their breath; the alien brew called "deerpiss."

	At least I could say I knew that smell, that rancid taste. In a fit of loneliness one evening after a typical relationship-ending battle with a contract spouse, I had blown a week's wages on a tube in a desperate attempt of communion with my faraway friends. Intergalactic imports were expensive, but I had good credit.
	That night I had primed myself with intox -- beer, or in current lingo, barley pop -- for bravery, since deerpiss was only available in a section of the megatropolis that lacked internal security. The aliens did not worry me; the humans did.  The area was known as "Spivland" because of the large concentration of poor, chronically unemployed, drug abusing, tattooed, uneducated, hairy, violence-prone locals. Spivs, as the demographic group had been labeled long ago. Back when nationstates existed, instead of economicblocs, After much searching I found a store for Peitou expatriates. Immigrants, the Peitouians were forced to settle in poorer-neighborhoods. Even so, they often pooled family resources and bought an intox or grocery store.
	Strange animal carcasses hung in the window, seemingly forgotten, covered with flies. I cupped my hand to the window to see inside. Strange, short creatures were buzzing about, all smoking deathsticks. Peitouians. The isles were crammed with rows and rows of irregularly stacked packages. Everybody seemed to have a purpose, but nobody seemed to be doing anything. Lighting a fresh deathstick I stepped inside.
	As I was searching among the alien products for deerpiss -- I knew from my friends holomessages it came in a tube with an alien ungulate on its label -- the locals pointed at me, spouting syllabic nonsense and hooting while they flung mucus far and wide. I assumed they were laughing at my height, as Peitouians averaged one meter; half my two. Smiling, the intergalactic ambassador, I walked into a low doorway (high for the locals) and knocked myself out.
	I was awakened by what I thought was the taste of vomit on my lips. I opened my eyes. The storekeeper was squatting over me -- or perhaps standing, pouring liquid into my mouth. I recognized the tube.
	"Good for heart" he said in broken Earther.
	The evolutionary differences frightened me. I stood, grabbed the tube, ran my EarthEx card through the scanner, and left to drink the rest at home. Which I did.
	So I knew both deerpiss's scent and repercussions.

	As did that contract spouse, never seen again.

	The band pranced about, eyes revealing other substances, likely not known to Earth science. Always the biochemists, those boys.
	Gramps, de-facto leader of the peer group, strummed his bass guitar and smiled at me. The rest of the band joined in. I recognized the garbled tune. I had written it long ago, in a band with Gramps, before I had made the choice to be responsible. When I was young and free. A long time ago .

	Gramps yelled the lyrics over the music.

	"Perception is as important as reality. Ask any schizophrenic you see."
	Gramps smiled, then the band disappeared.

	The deal was done. I had my purpose.  Accessing my keyboard, I typed seven characters, including the space. Capitals seemed appropriate.

	“I QUIT."

	I would become a mercenary. An intergalactic language mercenary.

CHAPTER 3

	My step was light as I walked, emancipated, into the afternoon haze. A symbolically clear day; I could almost see the sun. My friends told me Peitou's pollution was worse than I could imagine. They were right. I couldn’t imagine worse.
	I was halfway to the maglev subway entrance when I realized, in my new found freedom, that I had forgotten to cream up. I reached for solblock, then stopped. My new life would be one of risk. I could survive some ultraviolet. Soon I would be rid of this festering orb. If I mangled up the credits. It was in God's hands. If He was actually out there. And had forelimbs. Spivs filled the maglev. They behaved on the subway because of internal security's presence. One spiv wore a Ziebrig shirt; probably inherited. I remembered SkyBattles but was double his age. Spivs could barely afford lifepills, let alone harvestclones. A spiv would be lucky to reach my age. And I was young, by most standards.
	Bhang, a natural plant-drub, circulated. It was illegal, like all pleasure drugs except deathsticks and intox, but its use was so widespread it was usually ignored by internal security. The troopers felt it pacified a user.
	I accepted a microbonq hit from a friendly spiv. What the futhark? No more hair or piss exams for me.
	The chemical's successful crossing of my brain barrier set me thinking. Why were all pleasure drugs except deathsticks and intox illegal? A dim neuron flailed. Something to do with vestigial laws from nationstate times.
	The journey under the megatropolis was short, dilated by my artificially induced happiness: a primer  as such brain states were called. I bought a swig of intox at the barcar. You know: when the going gets prime, the prime get going.
	I was early; no contract spouse to deal with. Good thing: the new one's assets (despite their propensity) did not negate her liabilities. It sounds sexist, and it is. The retina scanner read my vein pattern, always a comfort.  Once again, I had not had a stroke. I swore I could feel the heat of the red laser beam, but knew it was just my prime monkeying with my perceptions.
	"Perception is as important as reality...."

	Maybe.
	The door clicked open. I stepped inside my dink -- slang for a microcondo. Futhark! The spouse had left it on bedroom. What a heathen. I stood in the secure zone and pushed for living room. The bed disappeared, replaced by couch and holoset. I checked my cyberwatch. The significant other would be working fastfood for another hour. I switched on the holonews.
	Life is full of coincidences. Maybe. Perhaps it is full of infinite inputs and you only notice the ones that
are important to your current state.
	It was a special on interplanetary economics, focusing on the Brim. The Brim system was a collection of planets undergoing an economic boom. Primarily export to Earth, but they were developing commerce between themselves.
	Who could have guessed? They were discovered less than a century ago. The existence of sentient beings, besides Earthlings -- sentient was being generous, in my opinion -- was the greatest news story since the fall of nationstates. Sentient beings! The world stood in awe. The call went out to scientists to study these unknown races. Anthropologists, sociologists, psychologists. So much to learn!
	Good and fine, but not very profitable.
	The Brim inhabitants were primitive, having just discovered the wheel and metal tools. Later, digs showed that the planets had been stuck in a cultural circle; technology had advanced to an industrial level several times, only to be dragged down by the demands of traditional culture which seemed to take up most of the peoples' time. Or: they had nifty religions but no holosets.
	Knowledge flooded in; comparative everything, Comparative biology, comparative sociology, comparative anthropology, comparative bowel movement habits, comparative...
	Science was great, but business people saw something just as abstract: profits. Completely new markets. The government attempted to organize the onslaught of technology, as leaders realized the Brim planets could be
exploited in stages -- nurturing progress, bringing them through the industrial age, then the information age, etc.
	Selling the necessary products along the way. Many felt the export markets could pull Earth out its eternal recession, if managed correctly.
	Laws were passed to maximize the exploitation, but business people couldn't resist breaking them. Making a profit is after all, mankind's best skill. Or second best, after killing. Obeying laws is way down the list.
	High technology leaked to the Brim planets at a rapid pace, and continues to do so. It is still a time of transition, where a man who tilled his floop (a rice-like fungus) with his Qewn (a beast-of-burden, a cold-blooded oxen with eight legs -- nine if you counted the prehensile tail) went home to watch ancient Earthling 2Ds on television. Or holovision, if crops had been good.
          Few anticipated the ability of natives to duplicate technology and the products such knowledge brought. They were reaching the stage where they weren't copying anymore -- they were bettering. And exporting. Where? Guess.
	But for all the Brim natives' skill to understand technology and schematics, there was one aspect of Earth society they couldn't grasp. An important one, if you planned to make business contacts with the planet with all the money.
	Earth. Full of Earthlings that spoke Earther.
	Brim languages didn't even have an alphabet; instead composed of alternating hoots, singing, and guttural phlegm-clearing sounds. Earthlings found the alien tongues almost as difficult to master as Brimmers found Earther. Not that many Earthlings cared.
	No, the Brimmers had to learn Earther. Some Earthlings learned some Brim system languages and a few adopted Brim religions. The dogma from Peitou was popular, probably because it avoided the pretense of a Divine Being who held you accountable for faults He had installed.
	I could rapport with the concept, and would have converted if I gave doodly-squat for anything beyond my next barley pop.
	Earther was beyond the Brimmers. A conglomerate of countless ancient Earth tongues that had merged during the great global integration, it evolved faster than a virus on the planet Mongkut. Some worlds, like Zippon, progressed faster than others. But Peitou? Earther numbers still stumped them. Earthlings were in high demand. What Peitouians called "native speakers" -- someone raised on Earth. Including
irresponsible, lazy, pharm and intox abusing slugs like my friends. Especially them, since few Earthling would live on Peitou because of the conditions there.
	As coincidences would go, it was ranked. The holonews ended with a segment on Peitou; how its stock market was doubling monthly. I took it as a sign from God; or perhaps The Flow, as Earthlings called the Peitouian belief of a cosmic force.
	But credits were slim. I had equity in my dink, but not enough for a jump. Hyperspace tickets were expensive. I had quit employment; I couldn't even make the next mortgage payment.

CHAPTER 4


	I looked for pawnable items. An  used holoset with a holophone feature. A set of worn gravifurniture; might be worth something. The couch was hovering close to the ground, though. That was it. My cyberwatch. Not much. I took the watch off and laid it on the table. My contract spouse would need something to pawn for the mortgage payment.
	No. She could sell the dink, if need be. There was a million in equity. I owed her that. She had, like all my spouses, put up with a lot; more than I.
	I was done with spouses. If I could overcome the biological urge to stay on my planet, I could resist the need for permanent female companionship.
	Besides, I didn’t have the time to sell the dink. I was afraid I would back out of my decision, like the clay ape I was.
	Perhaps I could finance the jump by maxing plastic. I requested an advance. Predictable. The contract spouse had me to limits. I wouldn't miss financing her habits. Intox, bhang, pharms, loids. Or mine, come to think about it, but there was little choice there.
	No job, no credits. Like a newborn. Or a spiv.
	Nature called. The dink could be worse. At least the bathroom was self-contained. Heating the seat, I sat down to my favorite book. Printed on paper, I had found it in an antique store that specialized in prebloc era relics.
	Written by a forgotten author, as were they all, it captured my attention despite my ignorance. I was unclear
about the nationstate thing it revolved around, but the artificial conflict between two friends -- one president of a nationstate island, one leader of a banned religion -- was something I enjoyed.
	I was beginning to appreciate the era's context and the humor that went with it. As I let gravity have its way I heard a clink as byproducts scraped against the metal of the bowl.  I thought about taking the book despite the extra mass. What did it matter if I couldn't afford the jump anyway? Ever since my intestinal transplant -- thank God one of my harvestclones had a complete lower intestine -- I had been careful to supplement my diet with bran. I did not want to go through that procedure again. The surgery was painless, but the recovery period was harsh, in a scatological sense.
	I had evolved a strange habit. It involved buoyancy.
	Performing my observational ritual (to see if I was eating enough bran. I had heard a rumor -- I never checked if it was true -- that floatation meant enough bran was consumed) I was puzzled by a metallic glint. I remembered the clink. Bizarre. I checked my sputtering neurons. Nope. Hadn't happened before, as far as I could remember.
	As far as I could remember? Hardy-har-har.
	I considered my options. Flush was obvious. But primate curiosity won. Postponing the flush (and yes, floatation had been achieved) I decided to perform a task that I prefer not to elaborate on. A tool was used, a hanger from the closet.
	Long live the tool-yielding apes! Perhaps destined to conquer the universe, like their planet? At this point it seemed likely.
	Once the object of my desire was in the sink, I ran boiling water until particulates dissolved. A coppery disc remained. I turned the water off. Still unconfident; germs had responded to mankind's technological progress well -- I went to my intox cabinet and grabbed the remaining bottle. Mex brew, ninety proof. I closed the drain and filled the sink. Expensive intox, but replaceable.
	There was a swig left, so I took it. I picked up the disc, and examined it. Vestigial grandmother cells fired. A word sputtered to the surface. "Coin.”
	An ancient monetary unit. How? Why?
	What was it worth?
	A profile of a bearded man filled one side, two stocks of some plant the other. Both sides contained writing, something about the nationstate that preceded NorthAmerica Bloc. I understood most of it, but some was in an unknown tongue -- likely an ancient Earther language. There was a date on the front: 1960,
	Where could I have consumed this "coin?" I ate out often. Neither me or my contact spouse were much for micros. The fridge was eternally bare. I had consumed its only contents, besides barley pop, last night; a yokroll Gramps had left on his last visit,. Gramps came back to Earth regularly. He explained he had discovered the secret of happiness: always be going home. When on Peitou, he was always leaving for Earth, where his remaining terrestrial friend was happy to hear of his adventures; when on Earth, he was always leaving for Peitou, where he could make money and his expatriate friends were eager for news of the home planet.
	He was trying to get everybody to make the jump. I was the last; the only one who ever had a regular job. A tough sell. During his last visit, he gave me the yokroll -- native Peitouian food -- telling me to fast before eating it.
	I had, but not from his advice. I had no food and was primed. The yokroll stunk like the carcasses in the Peitouian shop where I had bought the deerpiss, but since I had fasted inadvertently for a day, I ate it.
	Perhaps it was Divine Providence. Or "The Flow." I accessed the datachannel. The coin was a "penny," worth one percent of a NorthAmerican "dollar." An interesting artifact, no doubt. Worth something.
	I indexed a 1960 penny. Futhark! Worth a hundred million credits! God worked in mysterious ways! The holoscreen flashed a second line. "If in mint condition and has no 'd.'"
	I looked at the coin; mint condition all right, freshly scrubbed by a billion cilia and various digestive juices. But there were two 'd's'. One on the front and one on the back. Still, it must have some value being so ancient.
	I entered an advert. My screen lit up. The first dealer appeared and I held my "penny" between my thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly.
	"Appears mint condition," the dealer said. Is there a ‘d’?"

	"Yes," I said. "Two of them."
	He faced lit up. "Two? Are you sure?" I could see him indexing on his laptop. "Two? You sure?"
	"Yes. One on the front, one on the back."
	"Where did you get this coin?"
	"I'd rather not elaborate," I said.
	"I'm coming over. If it is authentic, it may be the most important nationstate coin ever found."
	"How much?" I asked.
	"Five hundred million?    Who knows?"
        I gave him my address.  Five hundred million! I checked the coin again. Yes, two 'd's'
	Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. I yelled "open" and the dealer stepped inside. He set a large briefcase on the table. Opening it, he removed several instruments, and placed a magnifier in his right eye, squinting to keep it in place.
	"Let's see that alleged double-d 1960" he said. I handed it to him.
	"There's no 'd' on this penny," he said, turning it front of his magnifier.
	"Yes there is."
	“Where?”
	I took the coin back. "Over the man's head on the front: 'In God we trust.' And above the plants on the back: 'United . . . ' "
	He laughed. "You're right. Unfortunately not what I meant. Still, there is no 'd' where the 'd' I meant is supposed to be,"
	"So no five hundred million credits?" I asked.
	"Afraid not." He motioned and I handed back the coin. He placed it on a scale, muttering to himself. "0.9999 of an ounce." He ran a laser tape measure around the diameter. ".075 inches." He aimed a beam of light at the penny. "95% copper, 5% zinc and tin." 24
	He looked up, smiling. "1960 no 'd'. I'11 give you ninety million."
	I should have bartered, but ninety million credits? I agreed and the dealer left with the coin. Minutes later my account was credited. I'm not stupid; I revoked my contact spouse's EarthEx card. She would have bought the latest model hovercar. Probably some new cold fusion PacRim model.
	More likely injects. Or some new loid.
	I thought about leaving a note but dismissed the idea. I holoed the bank and signed the dink over to her. I didn't need it. I even paid off my EarthEx card. No job and no debt!
	Happy days.
	I called for a hovertaxi. Within an hour I was at the airport. I bought a ticket for the jump and had enough left to beam the peer group I was leaving the planet of my birth.
	Not just the planet of my birth but where my species had evolved, where it was designed to exist. From the first amino acids floating in God's Chicken Soup, the entire evolution of lifeforms had developed in response to Earth's environment. Thoughts raced. Was it right to desert the planet which had so carefully nursed the lineage along through billions of years?
	Yes. If you had enough money.

	I was out of here.

CHAPTER 5

	Zippon was the first stop; the wormhole exited close by. Or entered, depending on your direction. From there it was a shuttle to Peitou. I had friends on Zippon, my respectable ones, but I had no desire to visit now. I couldn't afford it anyway. It was a very expensive planet. Perhaps later; on vacation or a journey back to Earth.
If I returned.
	We weren't allowed to consume before the jump because of some safety rule. When we landed I went directly to the bar. I had a two hour layover -- in Zipponian; four and a half Earthling, according to my cyberwatch. The shuttle itself would only take an Earth hour; Peitou was currently close to Zippon. All Brim planets existed in contiguous orbits, naturally. There was a set distance from a sun that allowed life. The system was remarkable in that it
possessed a dozen planets that fit the picky criteria life demanded. After all, Earth's system only allowed one. Astronomers said there had been many collisions between celestial bodies eons ago, but things were stable now. In a million years Peitou's slightly wobbly orbit would cause a collision with Jungo, but nobody was worried. At the present time, that is.
	I didn't want to be sober when I reached Peitou. I almost brought pharms to confirm my prime but I was nervous about Zipponian customs. Zippon was tightly controlled and I did not want to spend time learning the intricacies of their legal system first hand.
	The bar was unmanned; rows of vending machines lined the walls. Running my EarthEx through the scanner, I ordered a local beer. Despite mankind's faults, it must be congratulated for its development of credit cards which allowed peons like me to live beyond their means. At least temporarily, until the bill arrived.
	Opening the beer, I gagged at the stench. But knowing the alcohol content, I forced it down. Once olfactory senses were eliminated, it was smooth.
	I looked about. The bar was filled with a circus of races. Bipedalism was the rule. I recognized several species. There was a group of Peitouians in the corner, chain smoking deathsticks, Earth's top export to Zippon -on Peitou, the government still had a monopoly, but I suspected that would change soon. The Peitouians continually filled shot glasses with a thick liquid, holding them up as they repeated some phlegm-laced chant. Then they emptied their glasses.
	Naturally, there were many Zipponians, all dressed in Earth-like business suits, complete with vests. Their sight was almost familiar since they had the greatest amount of contact with Earth. They were taller than Peitouians, but shared an evolutionary background. At least that was my impression. Zipponians discounted any connection with Peitouians; they claimed the proximity of planets had caused parallel evolution. It was a weak, illogical, and racist argument but one they firmly believed.
	Before Earthlings had arrived, the Brim system had been in a state of constant warfare, which the Zipponians dominated. So to them, historical precedence supported their beliefs.
	Who am I to argue? I didn't even possess the ability to pick a stable female partner.
	The cognizant species from Mongkut seemed the domestic help,	 cleaning cluttered tables swiftly with their four upper tentacles.
	A Zipponian sat next to me at the bar. I smiled at him. He sucked in his flat nose, returning my greeting. I went back to my beer. He stood, bought the same beer, and returned. He flipped the pop top with one of his fingers -I guess you call them that -- and took a drink. Seeing I was watching, he emptied the can, and wiped his flat face, nose withdrawn, with the back of his hand.
	"Beer good, shit no?" he asked.

	I made a mistake. I smiled at his Earther, then	corrected him.

	"No shit," I said.

	"What?" he replied, nudging next to me.
	"'No shit,'  not 'shit no.' You said it backwards."
	He produced  a guttural apology, bowing forward. "Thank you, thank you.    You most best teacher. No shit."
	I smiled again, and apparently had a friend for the rest of my short stay, or my life, whichever came first.
	"You teacher Zippon?" he asked.
	"NO. Peitou."


	He gagged. "Peitou? No shit? Why?"
	"Why not?"
	"Ha, ha, ha, ha," he chuckled, in a good imitation of an Earthling laugh. "Funny joke. No shit. But why?"
	"Because. "
	"Ha, ha, ha, ha. Funny monkey. You reason for teach ugly planet?"
	"Not monkey," I said. "Ape." I wiggled my butt. "No tail."
	"Oh," he said. "Thank you." He pulled a small notebook from his vest pocket and scribbled furiously. "Funny ape. You reason for teach ugly planet?"
	I again corrected him. "Do you have a reason for teaching on an ugly planet."
	He shook with excitement. "Oh, oh, oh. Yes. I stupid. You say again?" He took a small recorder out and placed it on the bar. "OK? OK? OK?"
	"Do you have a reason for teaching on an ugly planet."        He repeated the sentence.
	"OK?" he asked.
	"OK," I said. "Close enough." I looked for an escape. The other stools were suddenly filled with Zipponians, listening intently. All placed recorders on the bar.
	It struck me. I had one skill up here, an intangible one I took for granted, but an expensive commodity nonetheless. I was giving it away for free.
	I emptied my beer, belching. My new fans chuckled; I had no way of knowing that I had just said I wanted sex in Zipponian.
	"I have sister. Trade for Earther?" one said, thinking I spoke his tongue.
	He must have mistook my look of confusion for one of anger. Human faces are difficult to read, I am told. He held his globular head in his hands and turned bright purple before falling to the floor.
	Nobody cared. His stool was quickly filled; in fact, it was now a standing room only crowd.
	Might as well make a profit. "I'm thirsty," I said. "What's the best barley pop you got?" Barley pop wasn't technically correct, I knew, since the local beer was made from a domesticated slime, but assumed the Zipponians would understand.
	Thirty fish-like mouths gaped. My friend next to me was the first to recover and purled a dictionary from his pocket, hurriedly pressing buttons. The others saw him, and	the bar was filled with beeps. Suddenly there was a stampede to the vending machines as the Earther slang was translated, then my mob returned with every beer produced in the universe. Many cost a pretty credit, too. I pondered my choices, then chose the most expensive, an Earthling beer, Wasatch Ale.
	Everybody congratulated the Zipponian who had bought it, shaking his hand, bowing. He stood, sucking his nose in and out. It was quite a celebration. I drank the beer, then all eyes turned back to me. I grabbed a Peitouian beer. Might as well get used to it.
	Everybody congratulated the buyer.
	Time passed quickly as my prime developed, my fans hanging on my every movement. Soon it was time to go. I stood, looking at my cyberwatch. Everybody crowded to look at it.
	"Good Cyber" one said.
	"What?" I asked.
	"Nice cybe," he repeated, pointing at my watch.
	"Thank you," I said. Earther tended to shorten words, and the Brim apparently was developing its own slang. I looked at my "cybe" again, drawing out my movements.
	The Zipponians this time understood my non-verbal cues, and a hundred business cards were shoved in my face.
	The gravity was much stronger than when I last stood. I dragged myself towards my gate. If everything else failed, which it usually did, I had found out one important fact about this corner of the universe.
	That the natives were friendly, and in fact loved Earthlings? That I could breathe the air on this foreign planet? That it was possible to leave Earth, that I wasn't bound to the planet of my birth?
	Nope.
	More important: I could drink for free.

CHAPTER 6

	I pushed groceries several times on the flight. Just as well; good to rid my system of the combination of fermented barley, fungus, and slime. Nobody cared about my three dimensional Technicolor yawns except on the first, which didn't quite make it into the suction bag. The flight attendants were quick and efficient, however, with their portavacs.
	"Neep flom ahhuggh toot. Yip beep Peitou. Neeeehow pitongue...," the intercom blared. I assumed it meant we were close.
	The intercom crackled again. The pilot must have known an Earthling was onboard.
	"Hello. How are you. Close Peitou. Out window see."
	The flight attendants stared at me. Smiling, I turned my head to look for the planet. An attendant ran to the                                 	cockpit; I assumed to tell the captain he had successfully communicated in Earther.
	I could see a gaseous planet, brown clouds swirling in great circles from the equator. Where was Peitou? It was nine-tenths water. I put on Velcro boots, and walked to the other side of the shuttle to look. Nothing but space. Twinkle, twinkle. An attendant waddled to me and motioned to the other window, the one I had first looked out.
	The entry into the atmosphere was bumpy, but my remaining cookies held. Gravity felt good. For several minutes we passed through cloud cover, then the planet revealed itself. The water was the same color as the air. Ahead, I saw what seemed an island. Later I found out it was the major continent.
	My prime wasn't what I had planned, having divested myself of much of it before it could be absorbed into my intestinal walls, but I managed a healthy buzz.
	Customs were slow; the inspector wanted to practice his limited Earther. I saw that I needed to get used to impromptu lessons. I got impatient, which the inspector sensed. He waved me through.
	He attempted to say "Sorry, sorry." It sounded more like "Sorroghhhh, sorroghhhh."
	I dodged the mucus, collected my bags, and vowed never again to travel with checked luggage.
	I found the door. Stepping into dim sunlight I checked my cyberwatch -- cybe, reset for Peitouian time. High noon. I saw endless swarms of Peitouians, all with a purpose, I guess, but looking more like ants scrambling about an anthill.
	An unfair analogy. Ants had a purpose; organization to their movements. Building their home, searching for food, raising their offspring, protecting the home turf....
	Perhaps more accurate: the hive of Peitouians looked like ants with their antennas cut off, knowing they were supposed to do something and go somewhere, but lacking the ability to know what and where.
	They filled every inch of pavement, pushing and shoving to get nowhere. Ants at least followed a coherent path. I watched. There was a pattern, although the smog was so thick I couldn't see the details. The pattern wasn't familiar to an Earthling's linear thought process. I was prejudiced. Not my fault, though. I came from a planet far, far away.
     In the distance I could make out a group of gigantic brightly dressed creatures. They were coming closer and the hive of locals parted for them in an apparently prearranged plan. I couldn't make out what the huge beings were, but they were aiming for me. And why not? I made a good target, twice as tall as any lifeform around.
	I squinted, but smog eliminated my sight. Closer and closer they came. Nervousness set in; everything was so alien. Billions of buzzing Peitouians was bad enough. But what had I done to be targeted by a group of colossal mutants? They came closer; definitely aiming for me. I saw the locals parted not from a prearranged plan but from intimidation.
	Suddenly the creatures were upon me. I still could not make them out, between my remaining prime and the clouds that swirled everywhere. One, the shortest of the group but still towering over the Peitouians, walked to me. I could only see his bright, apparently tie-died T-shirt.
	An object rested in his hand. Glasses.
	"Put these on," he said in Earther.
	I did. The glasses had polarized lenses that cut through the smog.
	I recognized the monster.
	"Smogglasses," Gramps said. "Essential outdoors."
	He held out his other hand. There were several pills	 in it.
	"Eat these," he said.
	I did.

	Two weeks later...

 CHAPTER 7

	Brainsoup, those first two weeks. Peitouian weeks, mind you. Tolerance for inter was high but my system was ill-equipped for the cornucopia of unknown and presumed illicit substances that found their way into my bloodstream and across my brain barrier.
	And a thin barrier it is.
	It was hard to say if it was the primes or the planet that did not allow my brain to focus. Peitou was a strange planet, perhaps the strangest.
	I had only one planet to compare it with, though, unless spaceport bars counted. Two, if so.
	When I awoke I was dressed and, amazingly enough, at work. Teaching Earther, I assumed. A wave of nauseating detoxification washed over me; there I was, teaching an overflow class of Peitouians. I stared out at the gaping fish mouths. They stared back. I had a dim recollection of beginning a sentence.
	I looked down at the desk in hopes of a clue and caught a glimpse of myself. Hair. I raised my hand to my face. A beard. Hmmm. I examined my clothes. I was dressed in a tie-died T-shirt, ragged jeans, and black slippers.
	Neurons sputtered, free at last, and fragmented memories filled my head.

	"Seer Of All...?" A student asked.

	"What?"  I replied.

	"Seer Of All...?"

	"Why do you call me that?"

	"It is your name."
	"Oh," I said. I hesitated to imagine what I had taught these Peitouians. I needed a deathstick. Inhaling carcinogenic smoke was a hobby of mine. Neural nets were reestablishing themselves, making conversation difficult. "How long have I been teaching your class?"
	My students thought it a test of Earther counting skills. A female in front raised her hand. She looked familiar; stranger since I didn't remember developing the ability to tell the natives apart. You know the saying: All Brimmers look alike.
	I pointed at her. She stood. Her accent was thick.  "Uggg-ten phlem-d-d-days."
	She was wearing a tight top, revealing human-like breasts. A memory burrowed to the surface informing me that Peitouians possessed remarkably human-like reproductive organs. Or was I prejudiced? Perhaps humans possessed remarkably Peitouian-like reproductive organs.
	In any case, it was knowledge I didn't know I had. I stared at her. She smiled and sucked her nose in and out. I recalled a neural route that had established itself despite the chemical battleground it had forged. She was attending class for free.
	Escape was a necessity. I stroked my beard, a habit I discovered I had. I recalled I was being paid an obscene amount to teach this class; I also remembered that the peer group had planned a priming tonight. I would need a monetary influx.
	"Class dismissed," I said.
	Noses were sucked in and out but my command did not evoke much negative response, like it had been heard before.

CHAPTER 8

	Two weeks with almost no recall and I needed a vacation. I put on my Walkman, a primitive portable stereo that the intergalactic conglomerate Sent was remanufacturing for the Brimmers. Brimmers was used to describe all occupants of this solar system. Walkmans had not been sold on Earth since PreBloc times, long supplanted by higher technology. The devices used a primitive form of recording, magnetic impulses on tape. Lacking comparisons, I could see why the product had been so popular.
	With the gradual introduction of Earthling products and services, a day on Peitou was like discovering Earth technology and culture from long ago. Stores were full of discarded technology like "VCRs," "food processors," and "rotary phones." The current hot fad was for "salad shooters," surely the most useless device ever created.
	I saw the purpose behind the United Planet regulations of technological introduction; the Peitouians would buy each stage in droves. Earthling companies undercut themselves by skipping technological eras, especially in consumer products; if the markets were nurtured, new products could be brought our yearly. But the intergalactic conglomerates did, in hopes of gaining larger market share than competitors. For greater profits.
	Name of the game, I suppose. I recalled that much from my MBA. In fact, holosets were not scheduled to be introduced for a decade -- Peitouian years -- but they were so common programs were already broadcast in hole.
	So be it. It was inevitable; greed was a prized Earthling emotion, envied by all cognizant species.
	I particularly liked ancient Earth music. I put my favorite tape in; an extinct band fittingly named "The Dead." As I left the school, I stopped at the pay window to get my EarthEx card recharged, then walked into this brave new world.
	The smog stung my eyes. I was almost hit by a hoverscooter flying close to the building to avoid the skyjam. I put my smogglasses on. The lenses cut through the glare. The streets were crammed with vehicles; scooters, buses, and automobiles on the ground, and hoverscooters and hovercars above. Crudely constructed buildings rose from the garbage piled on the streets. The noise was deafening, so I turned up the Dead.
	The ground begin to sway. I closed my eyes to no avail. My brain decided it was not a personal thing; a revolt for its exposure to chemical compounds it had not been given the opportunity to evolve to handle, but rather a manifestation of the planet's mobile tectonic plates. A building across the street collapsed, catching several hoverscooters on its descent. One contained a family of five; Dad was driving, Mom behind with an infant strapped to her back, and a teenager, arms wrapped around her waist. A child rode on the handle bars.
	Or did.
	I hurried to a subwalk that ran under the street. They were common; it was too dangerous to cross the congested streets aboveground. Subwalks were filled with hawkers selling God knows what: smuggled clothing from Earth or Zippon, Peitouian food, you name it. But this one was strangely empty. I took my earphones off. Above, the quake rumbled on. Ahead, I heard a lone guitar. At first I thought it my tape, but realized the guitar was playing the same song.
	It was an Earthling, busking for a living. He seemed familiar but I couldn't place him. His hat, a baseball cap, sat upside down on the floor. It was filled with the dull gleam of Peitouian coins. A sign behind him announced his availability for impromptu Earther lessons, and gave his rates. A local came running by in a panic; from the quake, I assumed, but stopped when he saw the busker. He examined the rates, written in both Earther and Peitouian, then sucked his nose in.
	The guitar player stopped. "Hello," he said.
	The Peitouian stuttered. "H-h-hello."      "How are you?" Shaman asked politely.
	The Peitouian concentrated, then spoke. "I am fine, thank you. And you?"
	"I am fine."
	The Peitouian threw some coins into the hat and scurried off. The busker didn't bother to count his take and resumed his song, continuing exactly where my tape was. I could still hear it since the earphones were dangling around my neck. When the song ended the busker spoke.
	"Greetings, Earthling."       "Greetings," I replied.
	"You are new to this world of pleasure, of decadence." The busker looked at his cap, overflowing with coins. "Which must be paid for. Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night must pay in cash if he is to enjoy life and finance his vice."
	"Words of wisdom," I said. "Rhymes, too."
     "That is why they call me Shaman. I think. It may be because I regularly use hallucinogens, though. I am unsure. One can never be confident in a universe he did not create. But I correct myself: in a universe I do not recall creating. I would not put it past me, however. This universe seems to have a sick perversity which matches my own. And my memory is not good. Tat tvam asi."
	"Is that Peitouian?" I asked this strange man.
	"No. Sanskrit. Long extinct Earther language. It means 'I am the whole world.' They didn't know about the infinity of the cosmos. Lucky. Easy being a solipsist back then.
	"But," he continued. "I think it more likely I am a parasite. As are we all. Based on the evidence I've seen so far, that is."
	I pondered the thought. Shaman looked at me. "What brings you to this heavenhole?"
	I recognized his long, blonde hair. The guitar player in Gramp's holofax which spurred my exit from Earth. For some reason my life history erupted from my lips. Shaman interrupted me.
	"I think I understand. I was a spiv on Earth, but can imagine what hell being a suit must have been." He spit. "Time constraints," he said, shuddering. "A major sin, in my book."
	"What?"
	"Compartmentalizing time like it was capable of being quantified. The Supreme Being would not be pleased."
	"How do you know?" I said sarcastically.
	"Actually, I do not. But if he is really me, I would not be pleased. But I know of beings that have met Him. Or at least someone who claims to be Him. And I do not recall them claiming to meet me, so likely He is not me. However, my memory is poor. Have I said that before?"
	"What, a dinner date with the Supreme Being?"
	"In a sense."

	I had had enough. I realized the quake had stopped some time ago. I bid Shaman good-bye and journeyed back onto the streets. As I walked up the stairs, I could hear his guitar. I put my Walkman back on, not surprised it was the same song, the same chord, as Shaman was now playing.
	Above ground all seemed as before. The streets and sky were jammed with vehicles, all contributing their exhausts to the soup. I looked to the building that had collapsed. It was being rebuilt. Things moved quickly on Peitou.
	I stood on the corner, watching for my bus. A couple of my friends had hoverscooters; they said it was the only way to go. I was wary of the danger. Perhaps in the future I would get one.
	Peitou had recently began using Earther numbers on buses, part of their national goal to bring the populace to Earther fluency.
	Good luck, from what I had seen.  I spotted my bus, number 54, in the far lane. Weaving my way through the inching traffic, I climbed aboard. Shaman's Supreme Being was with me, I guess, because I found a seat. Meteor-strike odds. I sat back for the long ride. My friends had not lied about the working hours but they had neglected to tell me that the commute was as long as the workday. Each direction.
	Traffic was light; my bus made my stop in two hours. A record. The fact I knew that and which stop was mine added to the proof that my conscious mind didn't have much responsibility. Obviously I had been navigating successfully, despite my lack of recall. What the hell were the duties of my consciousness? Apparently I had been managing quite well for two weeks on a foreign planet without it.
	"You've been drinking too much," it said.
	Its purpose came back.
	I also recalled I lived in a dink with several peer group members. I couldn't remember which but suspected they ebbed and flowed, anyway.
	As the bus slowed, I thanked the Supreme Being for the seat; normally the ride consisted of Peitouians with their faces in my crotch. Not on purpose (I think); it was a result of their short stature. Or my giant one. I gave no indication I was about to get off the bus. Luckily someone else had pulled the buzzer. I planned my route, knowing I would flatten several natives, including an elderly female near the door, but it could not be helped. When the time was ripe I sprung.
	I had almost made it before the riot started. As I had hoped, the mob's first reaction was to my amazing height, by Peitouian standards. Well, by any planet's standards, except Earth. The Peitouians' awe, manifested by their gaping fish-mouths, was quickly supplanted by a thought process:
	Huggphm Gaupph! (Very tall!) ... That Earthling is as tall as my house. Look at him! It is very funny ... I didn't notice him before ... where was he standing? ... if he was standing, I would have noticed him ... he must have been sitting ...... to sit you must have a seat...."
	A seat!
	The bus shook as the riot began. A seat was something to tell offspring about! I was close to the door but lost ground as the crowd pushed towards where I had been sitting. I fought, aiming for the open door, when the bus driver put the bus into gear.
	Adrenaline raced through my system, endocrine overdrive. Supreme Being help any Peitouians in my way. I bowled them over with strategic flips of my hips, jumped over them, and simply flattened some. They were not offended, being regular bus patrons.
	The door was almost closed; the bus jerked forward. Sweat poured from my brow; I did not want to find out what the next stop was. There were rumors of Earthlings who had missed their stop, never to be seen again.
	One thing stood between me and freedom. The elderly Peitouian woman.
	With a gentle flick of my hip I propelled her into a mild are and grabbed the door, forcing it open. I jumped out as the driver hit second gear.
	I stood on the curb, catching my breath. I lit a deathstick. I noted I was smoking a local brand, Eternal Life. I suspected Earth brands were expensive, which probably was why I was smoking a local one. Who knew though? Maybe I liked them. I tried, but could not recall the reasons behind my brand preference. 54
	I recognized my building and went inside. The doorman nodded, like he recognized me. Which was possible, but my guess was he assumed any Earthling that entered the building were supposed to be there. You know the saying: All Earthlings looked alike.
	It would explain how all the Earthlings jammed into the dink made it past him, despite the fact many were known criminals.
	As usual, a priming -- party -- was in full swing. I was tired so took a inhale of the current hot loid, Sonic, smuggled from Earth. It was illegal but so was everything, including teaching Earther.
	Gramps saw me and walked away from a group of female Peitouians. They looked about, then ran to Neon, entertaining himself in the corner.
	I grabbed a loaded Crab, a device filled with loid. I clamped the Crab to the lobe between my nostrils. The pinchers stung but the pain was jettisoned with a quick inhale. My brain demanded a smile. So I did.
	Gramps wasn't much for loids but grabbed a Crab anyway.
	"Everything is illegal but nothing is against the law," I said. "I am beginning to understand."
	"Perhaps everything is against the law but nothing is illegal. I am unsure. A matter of semantics, or whatever term is used to describe such things. I should know: I am an Earther teacher."
	"Me also. How are you?"
	"I am fine. And you?"
	The conversation didn't deserve an answer and Gramps didn't expect one. I looked about the room. On Earth it would be a rancid dink but here it fit the circumstances. It had come with a nice set of carved fungus furniture, set close to the ground. After all, the locals would never make the IBA (Interplanetary Basketball Association). The floor consisted of stones of some sort of fossilized fungus -- a popular lifeform on Peitou, a natural resource used for everything from Peitouians, beer, to ... floors. Ancient Earth music blared from the stereo, a portable model called a "ghetto blaster," paralyzing the phlems. Phlems were the local equivalent to Earth's cockroaches. I suspected the music's rhythmic pulse was in some way similar to their mating call.
	Either that or the bugs like to hump ghetto blasters. Certainly more than I could count were attempting to do so. 56
I assumed they were males. Or did females do the humping on this world?
	No. I remembered that.
	Not trusting my brain's storage abilities, I jotted down a note on a piece of paper. It didn't seem important, but who knew in this universe? Perhaps the insight could be made into a revolutionary phlem trap.
	"Rock and roll is a bug aphrodisiac."
	The music blared on. "I'11 sleep when I'm dead...."
	I looked at Gramps. "How and when," I said.
	He laughed. "Your first two week prime?"
	I nodded.
	"Chemical lobotomy is the only way. You couldn't have coped with this place. Most teachers don't last a week. Two weeks? You're a veteran. I hope you had fun, although I know you did since I was there. I hear you are gainfully employed. To use a cliché."
	"It's a class of Manchild's. It pays well. When is he coming back?"
	"When the sun rises and the moons set. How the fuck should I know? He went to Mongkut for a vacation. Many do not return. He did not hire an escort, which might be a mistake or the opposite, whatever that is."
	I laughed. "Fuck" had a nice ring; a forgotten word. Like most Earth exports, the profanity was ancient. It had spread on Peitou because of the ancient Earth 2D vids that were so widespread. I understood why "fuck" was the second most popular word on Earth in the Nationstate era. It just fit.
	Gramps took a snort on his Crab, tilting his head as he spoke. "Do you remember much?"
	I decided to try the term. I understood it was the most versatile word in ancient Earther, able to be used anywhere in a sentence. "Fuck nor" I said.
	"Spoken like a veteran," Gramps said.
	I remembered the peitouquake, as I assume such an event was called here. For the first time, I noticed large cracks in the walls. Phlems poured in the opening; that was where they were coming from.
	I pointed out the cracks to Gramps. Smog was sifting in -- or was deathstick smoke sifting out? "During the peitouquake...?"
	Gramps smiled. "Peitouquake?"
	"What do they call them?"
	"Earthquakes. At least that is what I teach. In local dialect, beep hoot pheee phugh." He spit, having to clear his nostrils to reach the last syllable.
	"What does that mean?"
	"The Supreme Being's gas."
	I was confused. "I thought the local religion did not contain a deity."
	"Just the export religion. The natives realized Earthlings would never buy yet another deity, so they export a religion without one, instead based on "Cosmic Flow." The religion actually comes from the planet Jungo, but it wasn't copyrighted so the Peitouians stole it. A smart marketing move, if you ask me. Many Earthlings are pretty tired of the deity concept. Me, for one. And the Supreme Being doesn't mind, I understand."
	I had ceased to pay attention. There was a drunken, rambling side of my friends that I didn't grasp. Perhaps I would after a while. Perhaps I had, but forgotten. Perhaps understanding would come back with a prime. I reached for a barley pop. Excuse my Earther: fungus pop.
	When I looked back at Gramps, he was still talking to me. I nodded, as if I had been in the conversation, then interrupted. There was something I had been meaning to ask; perhaps I already had but didn't remember. If so, no harm in asking again. It was accepted in the peer group that short term memory loss was not a fault.
	"Why did you bring me that yokroll on your last visit?" I asked.
	"Did you eat it?" Gramps asked. I nodded.
	"Really!" he replied. "Neon said you would, that your fridge would be so empty your need for calories other than from barley pop would override your olfactory senses. He was right. I owe him a case of fungus pop."
	Neon knew me well. "But why did you bring the yokroll?"
	"Not sure, really. Strange, now that I think about it. Why did I? Can't answer that. Can't answer a lot of things, though, so I won't give it much thought."
	"Why did you put a penny in it?"
	Gramps looked at me. "What's a penny?"
	"An ancient metal disc once used as a monetary unit on Earth."
	"Really. Why would it be in the yokroll? I bought it on Peitou, downstairs at the 7-11," Gramps said.
	I changed the subject. "I met an Earthling today, in a subwalk..."
	"Shaman?" Gramps asked.
	"Yes. Do you know him?" It was a stupid question. Of course Gramps knew him; how else could have Shaman been in the holofax Gramps had sent me; the one that caused me finally to quit my job.
	"A stupid question," Gramps said. "How else could have Shaman been in the holofax I sent your the one that caused you finally to quit your job?"
	"Is he dangerous?"
	"That is an ambiguous question. To whom?" Gramps paused. "Or is it 'to who?' Damn, this Earther."
	I felt stupid. "To himself?"
	"Of course," Gramps said. "Aren't we all? If it wasn't for ourselves, we would probably live forever. I do not think Shaman is a threat to the continued existence of the universe, but I have been wrong before. I busk with him from time to time. Not Earther, but music. He is a good guitarist and has an expansive knowledge of ancient Earth tunes. Beware of him, though."
	"Why? Is he mentally ill? Dangerous? Because he seems telepathic? Because he hasn't taken a bath for years? Because he claims to have second-hand knowledge of the Supreme Being?"
	"No," Gramps replied.
	"Then why?"
	"He never pays for his beers."

CHAPTER 10

	I awoke during what I assumed was the next day and reached for my alarm clock. It was gone. I looked about the room and located it. Hanging in tatters from the ceiling fan, it spun in nauseating circles. I could still make out the time. Almost. It was either fifteen after four or fifteen after fourteen. Either I had awoke sixteen hours early for class or an hour late. I choose the latter, since vague memories existed from six hours ago.
	If it was the next day. Maybe it was the next week.
	It didn't matter. Vocalizing the archaic term I was now so fond of, I dismissed my concerns. It was not my class, but Manchild's.
	"Fuck it," I said to no one, except the phlems on the walls, floor, and ceiling. And bed. I killed those, in hopes of encouraging an evolutionary lesson.
	Concentrating, I recalled Gramps and I had taken some local debauchkas -- I wasn't sure if the word was Peitouian or ancient Earther slang -- to an "HTV." HTV was short for holotelevision, a place where you chose the holovid you wanted and watched it in a private room. Drinks came with the price of admission. All holovids were available, from the most current Earth films to purple ones from every planet, in which various cognizant phylums had their ways with each other.
	It was entertaining although often hard to tell which was the male and which was the female. Usually the humping motion gave it away but not always.
	I lit a deathstick and relaxed as carbon monoxide replaced oxygen in my bloodstream. I needed a vacation. I had been on Peitou over two weeks. It was time for a break. No matter I couldn't recall much of the time -- that was normal. And who would want to?
	I called the local EarthEX office to check my balance. I was rich, with more credits than when I landed. Futhark -- no, fuck. I liked the word better: the sound of a veteran. And only one syllable; much better flow. Two weeks! I had bettered the stay of most.
	Having a credit card like EarthEX made me part of the elite. None of my friends had arrived with such creditworthiness -- they had never had a job before, let alone credit. But being part of the elite had its drawbacks. Peitou had a variable currency: sometimes open, sometimes closed. The EarthEX office explained that currently Peitou was attempting to stabilize exchange rates and no withdrawals in Earth currency were allowed.
	So I could not access a cash advance, only use my credits at establishments that took the credit card.
	I was rich, with no money and lots of credits.
	I could go the black market, where you bought jewelry on your card, selling it back at half the purchase price. But that was an act of desperation.
	I decided to switch my credit surplus from Earthling securities to a Peitouian stock fund. It was riskier but Peitou's market doubled with every hangover. Also, it would allow access to my credits since my funds would be in local currency. But it took a week to switch over, per Peitouian law.
	I couldn't wait. There was only one answer: busking Earther. I stumbled downstairs, into the muck, alert for hoverscooters. I put my smogglasses on but took them off. The streets were more crowded, more noisy, more polluted than I remembered. My recovering brain couldn't handle it. Better a comforting blur. I put my Walkman on. The Dead again.
	"One man gathers what another man spills...."
	My head complained at movement so I stopped at the 7-11 on the ground floor for some help. It must be an ancient Earthling franchise, I realized, with its two Earther numbers. I hadn't thought about it before. Seven-eleven? What could it mean? An Earther dice game?
	My head hurt so I bought a bottle of deerpiss and a case of fungus pop. It took five to fool my brain.
	The subwalks were best for Earther busking, Gramps had told me. Stumbling into the dim light I took my earphones off. How did you busk Earther? From what I had seen you needed a sign advertising your rates. Which I didn't have. Perhaps I wasn't a veteran, despite the constant interjection of fuck into my speech.
	I looked about for something to use as a poster and decided on the flattened cardboard from the case of fungus pop. I took the tubes of beer out, placing them on the ground. I realized I didn't know enough Peitouian to compose a bilingual sign. I didn't know enough of the language to write "hello." Not that it mattered since I had nothing to write with.
	The song from my Walkman sounded so good my knees involuntarily bent. As I pranced about I realized I could barely hear the earphones since I had taken them off. No, there was something else. A guitar.
	I recognized the tune. It was the same my Walkman was playing. I also correctly summarized the guitarist.
	I walked to the other end of the subwalk; again it was empty of the usual hawkers, and this time it had nothing to do with a peitouquake -- earthquake -- unless one was occurring now. I didn't think so, but the water in my ears might be more displaced than I realized. First lesson of the universe: anything is possible.
	Ahead, I saw a silhouette against the misty, dim lights. There he was, entertaining himself with his guitar until other options presented themselves. I cleared my throat and spit, the Earthling's equivalent the Peitouian hello.
	Shaman was much more fluent. The phlems gathered quickly at his greeting, lump-like on the floor.
	He wiped his mouth and switched to Earther. "Greetings, Earthling. Or perhaps I should say aloha." I knew the word, a freak memory. "Aloha," I said. "Care for a partner?"
	"'OK' as the locals say." He reached into his guitar case and pulled out a new price list. He posted it and removed the old one. I realized our entire conversation had been transacted while he played his guitar. That was not possible, since he had just used one hand to take down the old sign and post the new one.
	I turned my Walkman off. Shaman stopped playing.
	After a few seconds a Peitouian walked up and read the new price list.
	"Hello," Shaman said, forcing the Peitouian into a conversation. I saw why Shaman was a successful Earther busker.
	The Peitouian smiled. "Hello."
	"How are you?" Shaman asked.
	"I am fine. And you?"
	"I am OK."
	The Peitouian smiled. "I too. I am OK."
	Advanced Earther.
	Shaman pointed at me. "My friend..." He did not know my name.
     The Peitouian smiled as he looked at me. "Hello."
	"Hello" I replied. "How are you?"
	"I am fine. And you?"
	"I am ... OK."
	"OK," he said. "You friend Shaman?"
	"Yes. You friend of Shaman?"
	The Peitouians nodded furiously "Yes, yes." He looked at Shaman, who smiled at him. "Shaman very best friend."      
	"What is your name?" I asked.
	"Phegmlipp," he said.
	"His Earther name is Mick Jagger," Shaman said.
	The Peitouian bowed nervously. "Yes, yes. Mick Jagger." He beamed at Shaman. "Humble teacher name gave me. Very honorable, Shaman says me. Name ancient Earthling king."
	Shaman winked.
	"Hello, Mick Jagger," I said. "How are you doing?"
	He twittered nervously.
	I realized my error. He didn't understand; I had not phrased my response correctly. "Hello, Mick Jagger. How are you?"
	He beamed. "I am fine. How are you?"
	Shaman interrupted, throwing out the phrase that made him so much money. "Your Earther is very good, Mick Jagger."
	Mick Jagger responded to his ability to converse with two Earthlings by throwing an amazing amount of currency into Shaman's hat before walking away.
	"It's an art, really," Shaman said. "Despite your newness, you seem to have the talent." Shaman divided the take, handing me half. "New blood is an effective management tool. Supreme Being be praised."
	Within a couple of hours I had financed my vacation. I bid Shaman aloha, but didn't think he noticed. He had drank the deerpiss and most the fungus pop. Gramps had warned me. I managed a prime, a fairly admirable achievement from what others had told me of sharing inter with Shaman.
	Mongkut was inexpensive. I had enough spending money for a few weeks. The shuttle tickets could be charged on EarthEX.
	Mongkut was paradise, I had heard. Ninety-ninth water; the only land was scattered islands. All with endless beaches and uncorrupted reefs. Not coral, but a local polyp
that was close. I didn't know the Mongkut term. The island breezes were cool, the waves friendly, and the water warm. The sea creatures were astounding; they came in every shape, size, and color. And none ate hominids. So far that is. They hadn't seen many. Or tasted them.
	More important, everything was legal and nothing was against the law on Mongkut. It would be a refreshing change from a planet where everything was against the law but nothing was illegal.
	In retrospect: it's hard to say which is best.

CHAPTER 11

The length of the Peitou to Mongkut flight escaped me. I suspect my prime -- pharms and inter, for the record -played a part, but the time dilation was likely caused by the lack of a reference. I had left my cyberwatch on Peitou; I was on vacation. It was my biological clock that would dictate my actions, not some machine on my wrist. Dinnertime? When I was hungry. Bedtime? When I was tired. Primetime? When I breathed.
	We landed in Mongkut City, the planet's capital and the only megatropolis on the planet. The locals had not used Earther when naming it but the city's true name was uncomfortable to pronounce in Earther and, as throughout the universe, was supplanted by that dominant language I was taught as a child.
	Thank the Supreme Being, too. I had no other useful skills, despite my education. But I could speak Earther fluently, like I had spoken it all my life. Which made sense. And luckily, though my years of pursuing the perfect prime had weeded out the weak brain cells, the damage seemed focused on the quantitative side. And the need to add, subtract, multiply, divide, or take a square root or derivative was as necessary as hunting skills in today's society, where even my watch could calculate pi to a million places if I ever felt the need to.
	Which I never did.
	As we taxied to the gate I surveyed the surroundings through the tiny, microdust-scratched window. Spaceports were a good way to appraise civilizations; infrastructure representations. A clean, efficient, boring airport meant the planet would be clean, efficient, and boring.
	From what I could see, cleanliness, efficiency, and boredom would not be a concern. The shuttle halted with a screech when a family of Mongkuts, who apparently used the weeds that grew in the asphalt cracks as feeding grounds for their domesticated animals, overgrown millipedes, wandered onto the runway.
	At least that was my assumption. If I hadn't known what the dominant species looked like -- with their upright stance and tentacles -- I would have been hard pressed to determine which was the cognizant species. Both were eating the weeds.
	Mud shacks lined the runway and large groups of natives waved at the shuttle like Earthlings confronted with a train in the countryside. I waved back, a silly response since they could not see me. I suspected train passengers on Earth did the same.
	The Mongkuts were happy, but poor. Perhaps there is a correlation? Unlucky souls. They were poor, yes, but had a society that promoted family unity and the pleasures it brought. And a lack of concern for anything in the future beyond the next meal.
	A worthwhile existence. Unless you are living it, I suppose. Earth apes once had such an Eden but destroyed it with their concern for the future. Worse, worrying about the future brought monetary success. Planning and all that. The death of happiness. Apparently every cognizant lifeform in the cosmos was preprogrammed to be blinded by hopes and dreams that monetary success was supposed to bring, in hopes of a new holoset or perhaps a hoverscooter to get nowhere faster, discarding in a nanosecond the traditional values that it had taken evolution millions of years to create.
	Oh, well. May bon fa. Mongkut would be destroyed soon, by contact with Earth -- and Zippon, Peitou, and the other "civilized" planets. Its annual economic growth rate was already over one hundred percent, which didn't mean much yet since the base was almost zero. Soon it would; although my left brain had been largely eliminated I could roughly project what hundred-fold exponential growth would do.
	To my credit: I could still handle round numbers.
	And the economy would bustle, constrained only by the inability of businesspeople to speak Earther. Mongkut would have to pay high wages to native Earther speakers, just in time for a wandering Earthling who was damn sick of Peitou.
	Solipsism seemed apparent, except for my contact with others with an equal claim.
	We disembarked. I followed Gramps's advice, phoning a native Mongkut he recommended, who specialized in making sure Earthlings made it onto their return flights in addition to organizing what occurred in between. I recalled Manchild did not follow Gramps's advice and had not been heard from for a Brim solar year. I planned to look him up.
	The phone was answered on the first ring. "Hello," it said.
	"Hello," I responded, per what was now intergalactic protocol. Gramps hadn't mentioned if the Mongkut was male or female and I couldn't stand the pronoun "it" when speaking with someone in the first person.
	"Hello," I repeated. I am an Earthling on vacation. Are you male or female?"
	The voice giggled, and I knew, despite the lack of gender in the voicetones that it was a she.
	"Which you want?" Again the giggle.
	"Female. "
	"Then I am your man. Where you come from?"
	"Peitou. "
	"Friend of Gramps?"
	"Yes . "
	"How Gramps?"
	"Bored and lonely."
	"Good he himself. My name Mama. You need helper?"
	I was wary, despite Gramps's recommendations. "Yes. How much?"
	She laughed. "You no worry. You rich man. Earthling. All rich. Special service?"
	I hesitated. "What special service?" I asked. Ten minutes and I was dropping conjunctions. Why did they exist anyway?
	"Up to you. But know Earthling likes. Especially males. Very pre-die-table." She stumbled on the word, proud she got through it. "Double credits for full works. You sound like full male.   Big stud, you. I tell from voice. Never wrong yet. Ask customers."
	Stud? My brain sifted and located a reference about male equines on Earth, a species that had survived because it had the insight or luck to be domesticated by the apes that dominated the planet. Either that or something about a stiff metallic object that remained its rigidity when pounded into wood.
	I'm no linguist, but I suspected Mama was referring to the latter definition.
	"How long you got?" Mama asked.
	"Two weeks. How much?"
	"Maybe you want special, special service. Never no complaints. And make sure you get home. Must sign contract, though."
	"For what?"
	"Make sure you no sue if boys have to zap you. Tell truth: happened many times. Usually, as matter fact. Nobody want to leave. Pleasure center activated."
	I pondered. Special, special service? Hard to resist the duplication of such a juicy adverb.
	"How much?"
	"You at phone spaceport?" Mama asked.
	"Yes."
	Within seconds I was handed a microbong full of the sweetest bhang I had tasted. While it was crossing my brain barrier, expelling the worries that reverberated within, three female Mongkuts in skimpy tops surrounded me and began a coordinated caress with their tentacles. My brain raced: what could four upper appendages do? Times three?
	I picked the dangling receiver up. I could barely spit the short sentence out. "How much?"
	"You rich Earthling," Mama said. "Why care? Million credits, most. Maybe two. Three? Who know? I not Supreme Being. No complaints. Best time ever in wasted life. Not want to go homer but I make you. Part of contract."
	"You take the EarthEX card?" I asked.
	"Of course," Mama said. "Just signed up. I suc-cess-ful inter-galactic busy-ness-person you know."
	"Many multisyllable words, Mama," I said. "Your Earther very good."
	"You get ten percent discount, polite Earthling."
	On Earth I never questioned that I was a coherent being, in control of my actions. Oh, I had a subconscious to be surer but civilization kept it in check. On Mongkut, there was no civilization. Only whatever kept me happy.
	Once again the value of the conscious brain was questioned.
	Time passed quickly. Much too quickly. It passed so quickly it didn't pass at all.
	I screamed when my escorts arrived and damned them to Intergalactic Hell, whatever that was, as they dragged me away. Two weeks? Two minutes.
	I seemed to recall tearing off a couple of tentacles in my fury. I knew they regenerated like a skink's tail so felt no guilt, especially since I had no way of knowing if my recall was correct. Finally someone shot an airjet of something I would like to track down for personal use into my arm, and the next thing I knew Gramps was carrying me from the Peitou spaceport.
	Gramps opened my eyes with his thumbs.
	"How is Manchild?" He asked.
	"Who?" I managed.
	"Have a good time?" Gramps said, releasing his thumbs.  My eyelids responded to gravity.
	I muttered an incoherent response.
 	"What?" Gramps asked, leaning forward.
	"Mutter, mutter..."
	"That's what I thought you said."

CHAPTER 12

	Back on Peitou things quickly settled back to normal, whatever that was. On Earth the noun (verb? Don't ask me -- I only very good Earther teacher) had intonations of permanency. Out here in the outback it was more like an adverb.
	Outrageous wages for speaking my native language, monetary surplus, crowded streets, continuous primes and primings. Normal, except the strange rash in my private parts. At times I thought I felt movement, not a comfortable feeling: this was my crotch. I tried anything and everything; local herbal (i.e. fungus derivatives) remedies bought from the corner pharmacist, whom I knew well despite my short stay as he found it easy to ignore the need for prescriptions for pharms as long as you paid in cash and included a large tip, antibiotic ointments from Earth, even hot baths in the heavy-metal laced Peitouian water. Nothing worked, although the baths did slow things down.
	Even stranger, I began to awake at night with a prickly feeling. To my horror, when I viewed the affected area I found red welts which seemed to form a Earther letters. The first night I passed it off as an hallucination, a reasonable assumption in the circumstances -- Earther letters on my pecker? The second night, a dream. The third time scared me. I lit a deathstick to calm my nerves and awoke Gramps, who laughed.
	"You did have a good time on Mongkut, I see."
	"Probably," I said. "What is it?"
	"A sexual-transmitted disease."
	"A sexual-transmitted disease? That knows the Earther alphabet?"
	"It's cognizant. Evolution wastes no time on Mongkut, and God knows, to use an ancient Earther phrase which I quite like despite the fascination with the Supreme Being, that VD has plenty of opportunity there..."
	I was distracted. "What's the difference between God and the Supreme Being? Aren't they synonyms?"
	"I hate to give you the response that answers most, if not all questions, but I will: yes and no."
	"I know they come from different dogma," I said, forgetting my prickly pecker. "But I thought they were both Creators Of The Universe."
	"They are," Gramps said. "But there is a difference."
	"What's that?"
	"Speaking from a dogmatic sense?"
	"Yes," I replied. "What else?"
	"God cares. The Supreme Being does not. According to dogma, remember. I personally have spoke with neither."
	"What should I do?" I asked.
	"You woke me to ask me what dogma you should choose? Give me a break! And a long one, since I haven't slept for four days. Peitouians ones, mind you."
	"No, not that," I said. "More important. What should I do about this fluent rash?"
	"Mongkut is the pleasure planet, as you obviously found out," Gramps said. He rolled over and was snoring before I could reply. Learning to sleep quickly -- anytime, anywhere -- was a skill fast learned on Peitou. Or maybe it came from excessive use of stimulants.
	"What should I do?" I asked.
	Gramps opened his eyes but I saw no hint of awareness. "Go to sleep."
	"But what about me?"
	He stirred. "What about you? The disease is fatal to Mongkuts. What about your partner?" He snickered. "Excuse me. I don't want to be disrespectful to the dead -- not that I care, since there is plenty of life in this universe to go around, but just think: a month ago you were on Earth, slaving away your days doing Supreme Being, God if you prefer, knows what, worried about your credit card debts and if your dink would ever be paid off and if your contract spouse would shut up long enough to use her vocal orifice for something useful, and now you are in a far corner of the universe complaining about a self-aware venereal disease playing scrabble on your pecker.
	He had a point.
	"It's not fatal, as far I know," Gramps said. "To Earthlings. I've never had it, though, so you are not speaking with an expert. But know one."
	An easy guess. "Shaman," I said.
	"10-4, Rubber Duck," Gramps said. "To use a really outdated Earther term. And I understand Shaman carries on dialogues; slow, but apparently meaning..." He fell asleep before he could finish.
	I went back to my room. Although I had suppressed the knowledge, I was sure the first letter had been a "H." A capital, no less. The second, an "a," small case. The prickly feeling returned. Hesitant, I looked down. It was fading, but definitely an "d."
	"Had?"
	I went to the fridge and carried a case of fungus pop to bed.
	God? ... The Supreme Being? ... helps those who help themselves. And drunks, I had heard. I assume He watches drunks who help themselves very closely.
	Despite the very itchy and personal spelling beer within ten fungus pops I was asleep.

CHAPTER 13

	I looked everywhere for Shaman. Every subwalk, every bar, every barbershop. He was gone; vanished from the face of the universe. I asked every Earth expatriate I saw. They knew Shaman but none had seen him for weeks.
	I was free from letters for a few days. Perhaps the vile, carcinogenic Peitouian water had done the trick. I hoped so. I wouldn't survive many more baths. My hair was falling out in clumps.
	Manchild still had not returned from vacation so I continued to teach his class. I also picked up some seminars to prominent businessmen which paid extremely well. There were few Earther teachers with master degrees in Business, let alone any educational history.
	In fact, the letters “MBA” were a magic acronym. I say acronym because the locals couldn't understand which abbreviations to pronounce and which to enunciate letter by letter. So instead of M-B-A, it was Mmmba. Sounded like the ancient Earth dance.
	Let's be honest: the only reason the locals gave a shit about Earth and Earther was to make money. Who could blame them?
	And an Earther who know the big words used in the language of Earth money was valuable. And it would never end, as far as I could see. My clients ... it sounded better than students, and you could change more to "clients" than "students" were as fluent as Peitouians got, able to maintain fairly coherent conversations. But that was still a long way from market penetration cycles, S-curves, and R and D multipliers. A long way. I spent an entire class trying to get my clients to pronounce "R and D" instead of "RAND." I finally hit on the idea of using "all instead of "and." "
	The days passed without incident, until my rash reappeared during a class about productivity-based employee benefits. The rash's rebuttal was quick; perhaps the hot, murky baths had only been an evolutionary spur, weeding out the weak. I recalled life evolved quickly on Mongkut. The letters were now hourly: an "e" then "a" then "n."
	"ean?" "Had - ean" Perhaps a single word? "Hadean?"
	My students guessed incorrectly why I twitched, scratched my crotch, and left the room. They assumed it was the usual Earthling gastrointestinal reaction to the local cuisine. It was a reasonable assumption and close, in a physiological placement sense. And while I was getting used to drinking fungus, eating it remained another matter. It wasn't a taste problem; decades of bachelorhood had eliminated my taste buds. It was a digestive one; my stomach seemed intent on liquefying any Peitouian food that entered. Perhaps it was normal -- I'm no expert on native stool texture. Rather than endure discomfort I followed Gramps's advice: Eat at Earthling fastfood restaurants.
	They were sprouting everywhere, the most visible sign of the speed of galactic economic integration. MacHappy's, MeatKing, Dubinkey's. They were a piece of Earth available to all. And packed to the gills -- no pun intended since, despite the fish mouths, the locals were not descended from fish, but fungus. Surprise!
	Prices were expensive as the food was grown on special hydroponic farms, but it tasted like home. Despite the cost, Peitouians packed the restaurants. Not only could you eat Earthling food, look at Earthling pictures on the walls, but you could marvel at the Earthlings who frequented the place. Perhaps even talk to them. I had taken to wearing a cap that said, in Peitouian, "No talk or I eat offspring."
	The expatriate who thought the caps up was wealthy, I was sure. For they worked. Although impolite, I started wearing it on the street. The locals left me alone. There were rumors of Peitouian children being eating by Earthlings spoken to while wearing the cap, but I assumed they were just that, rumors -- spread by the cap's manufacturer. Who knew, though? To Earthlings, fungus was fungus.
	So I ate like on Earth. The galaxy was different but the hamburgers were the same. Thank the Supreme Being for quality control. If you closed your eyes and ears you could imagine yourself back home when you took a bite. Not that I wanted to be, but I'd found even those who had no inkling to return had pockets of homesickness in their brains that popped out occasionally.
	Earthling fastfood was expensive but I could afford it. It was also unhealthy; I assumed my nanomachines were multiplying in records numbers.
	I was content to let my clients think I had stomach problems. Explaining I had a self-aware venereal disease would have to be saved for a later class.
	"Hadean." Hmmm. Perhaps my disease could not spell well. A definite possibility, my brain said, unable to recall any intergalactic viral spelling bee competitions. My brain sifted, attempting to find a combination of letters that would make sense.
	I canceled my next class. The onslaught of letters was increasing. "W." "a." The arrival of each was followed by a sharp sting, like I had been seeking a new sexual experience by putting my pecker in a beehive. I felt compelled to look at each letter as it welted majestically. I selected a hovertaxi, wary of the response on the bus when I lowered my shorts -- at native eye level -- to check my tubular scrabble board.
	The taxi driver watched in the rearview mirror as I peered down my shorts. "You need female?" he said. "Know good barber shop. Fix hair, fix everything. Good price. I know. Sister work there. Special service. You handsome Earthling. All girls want."
	"No thanks."
	He sucked his nose in. "OK, OK. Half price for you."
	"No. "
	It was difficult to maintain two conversations simultaneously. The letter pains were coming quicker. "n." "t." I saw I had insulted the driver. "Sure sister very beautiful," I said. "But Earthling sick."
	He was still upset, so I said the magic mantra. "Your Earther very good."
	He popped his nose in and out and bowed over and over, as far as the steering wheel would let him. "Thank you, thank you."
	He pulled to my building. I gave him a large tip, to split it with his beautiful sister, then went inside. The doorman smiled, as he always did no matter what the Earthling was doing this time, when I convulsed like the surprised nesting ground of a tarantula hawk. "e."
	The next letter was a gimme. It hit in the elevator. "d."
	"Wanted? "
	Wanted? What, a host? A symbiotic one, whose gain was being entertained by a conversation with his reproductive organ? I was becoming accustomed, in a sense, but food source was an unanswered question. While I hadn't noticed any conspicuous consumption the thought weighed heavily.
	I hated to wipe out life in any form, self-aware or not, but took comfort in that it seemed one of major purposes of my species. Having destroyed most lifeforms on its home planet, for large profit, it now taught such exploitation to new races on new planets. For larger profits.
	The correlation between Mankind's riches and its elimination of lifeforms was well plotted, statistically valid. Perhaps such success could have been achieved without the slaughter, but since it hadn't happened it wasn't a side often argued.
	Why would it? If something was extinct, it was extinct. Dead, dead, dead. After all, ninety-nine point nine percent of Earth species became extinct before hominoids started fondling themselves. Earth was not a safe place, conscious apes or not.
	I planned to continue my species' legacy. I lay in the bathtub all day, constantly filling it with hot water. Heavy metals would leach into my system but that was the price I had to pay. And I was rich enough to journey to Earth for a harvestclone, if need be. I had left a small fund to keep them alive, just in case. I made a mental note to transmit some credits home to keep my brainless brothers alive. In fact, maybe I would move them to Zippon. They had harvestclone facilities and was much closer. It would be expensive but, using that malleable term: What the fuck.
	Puckered, a lead-lined prune, I collapsed in bed. I didn't bother to dry myself since the humidity would cover me with sweat faster than I could towel off. I lay back on the bed and felt the urge for a deathstick. I sat up and noticed large clumps of hair on the pillow. Curious, I ran my hand through my hair and it slid off like a toupee on hot butter. I noticed my body was totally devoid of hair; legs, armpits, golden triangle. Hopefully it would grow back. If it didn't, so what? No hair check worries for me. Perhaps finally I would get a nickname -- Cueball. Had a nice ring.
	No letters appeared that night, nor ever again. Thank the Supreme Being. I dreamed my penis was the Goodyear blimp, testicles serving as gondola. Letters slowly crossed the electronic screen, one by one. H-A-D-E-A-N
W-A-N-T-E-D ... H-A-D-E-A-N..."

CHAPTER 14

	I awoke to Manchild's return. Thank the Supreme Being; no more teaching his classes. While the pay was high, it was not astronomic. Like my "clients" paid.
	A party began, of course. It had the appearance of a major one since Manchild's re-emergence presented at least the semblance of an excuse. I canceled my "seminars" for the week, those that remained now that Manchild was back. Better safe than sorry. While I knew my clients wouldn't say a word if I did not show up, they would think it extremely professional for an Earthling to give any warning. And I was a professional.
	Snicker, snicker, guffaw, guffaw.
	I hadn't seen Manchild since he left Earth many years... months? ago, excluding the occasional hologram. He had de-evolved, a suitable but difficult goal in an universe which seemed intent on pushing lifeforms forward whether they wanted to go or not. He looked like a werewolf in an ancient 2D vid, except his facial hair was longer. And unkempt.
	He had not spoken Earther for a long time and had difficulty communicating. Later, as our prime evolved we began to comprehend him. Whether this was a result of Manchild's Earther skills returning or the inter I could not say.
	We learned he was using a Mongkut dialect spoken only on the island he was marooned on. Before he had left Peitou, he had arranged to contribute to the Empty Universe new guide for Mongkut. Empty Universe was a budget traveller series which expatriates treated like born-again Christians did the Bible. It -- Empty Universe -- I haven't followed the Bible closely, as it seemed lacking in specific hotel recommendations -- was amazingly accurate on what to do, where to go, and how not to die when on a foreign planet. All important.
	Mongkut was still being explored and Manchild was assigned several distant islands of which little was known. His hovercar had crashed offshore and he was rescued by the
natives, who had never seen an Earthling in person, only in 2D reruns of an ancient Earth sitcom called Gilligan's Island.
	Manchild bore a close enough resemblance to the lead character that they declared him King. As part of his duties, he was forced to reproduce with every female in the island chain. This was a formidable assignment, even for Manchild, a.k.a. the Human Tripod.
	Manchild took a swig of fungus pop and a drag from his deathstick.
	"Never again will I ejaculate..." He caught the sight
of an Earther girl whom Neon had coerced to remove her top.      "...with another species...." he finished.
	Eventually he had been rescued by the Empty Universe staffer hired to replace him. If anything, despite or because of the constant emptying of his seminal vesicles, he was healthier than before. Only high protein, low cholesterol fruits grew on the islands, and the lone mind-altering substance beside ten orgasms a night was a species of hallucinogenic fish, which Manchild had nicknamed fryfish. He explained they were difficult to catch but were attracted to light.
	"I think it's extinct now," Manchild said. "Let there be light."
	Sensing a serious primefest, I wanted to give myself enough time to recover. I canceled another week of classes. Excuse me: seminars. It cost me more than the monthly salary of Sonz's CEO but ... what the fuck.
	Time passed, as it always does.
	Party is not a descriptive adjective. Or noun. I had underestimated when I told my class I would be off for two weeks. A month had already passed; some party-pooper was keeping track. My credits began to run short but I kept going.
	When the going gets prime, the primed get going.
	Details are vague. Somewhere in there we were arrested for allegedly violating a local beast of burden -- a charge I Vehemently deny if only for the sake of my own conscience; consumed our local convenience store's yearly allotment of fungus pop; and journeyed to the Mongkut island where Manchild was the Son of Heaven. I dimly recalled financing some of the party's tickets.
	EarthEX! Don't leave your planet without it!
	Manchild was amazed, as were the rest of us.  His interbreeding between the species was successful.  And the girth of Manchild's loins was impressive, by any standards. Mutant Manchilds were everywhere, some with tentacles, but most with arms.
	While Manchild further solidified his claim we busily rigged up the spotlight we had brought with us.
	Fryfish weren't extinct, we discovered.
	Perhaps now.

CHAPTER 15

	Shaman arrived after the party had returned from Mongkut. He had been seeking spiritual solace on Jungo -home to the Peitouian export religion. Shaman's quest seemed strange since the religion avoided the pretense of a Supreme Being -- whom I thought was dear to Shaman's heart.
	Contradictions run rampant in the depths of the universe.
	Jungo was a gigantic world, the largest known not only in the Brim system, but the universe.  Aside from uninhabitable gas giants, of course.  Despite its size it was extremely overpopulated and very poor. It was relatively safe for Earthlings. Jungo's government came under constant criticism from the United Planets (which Earth dominated) because of its repression and habit of slaughtering its citizens. But Earthlings were encouraged to visit since Jungo was soliciting foreign investment. No matter that Earthlings who went did so because they didn't have enough credits to go anywhere else; an Earthling was an Earthling. The authorities on Jungo could not distinguish between an responsible Earthling and the opposite.
	In reality, if you were bipedal you were safe. The various pigments of Earthlings confused them. After eating a couple of well-tanned Earthlings and suffering the trade restrictions, they found it safer to assume any bipedal creature was from Earth.
	Which was more of a problem for Shaman than it sounds since he tended to resort to quadrupedalism late at night.
	His arrival caused a roaring cheer lasting for several minutes, shaking the flimsy foundations of the building. The room was much larger than before; while we were on Mongkut the complex had been demolished and rebuilt because of the earthquake damage.
	If Shaman was anyone else, he wouldn't have been recognizable, covered with an even layer of Jungonese dirt, his scraggly hair somehow sprouting to waist-length in a few weeks. But he wasn't anyone else, so he looked more like Shaman than when he left.
	He stumbled to the center of the room with the swagger of a man who had been drinking alien inter for weeks without stopping, a high probability. He climbed onto a table, the highest point, and spread his arms wide. The room quieted. "It's a priming," he belched.
	It was official. The fatigue that had followed the first month dissipated rapidly. Shaman climbed off the table and walked towards me. He invoked the Peitouian military salute, grabbing his crotch. I returned the gesture.
	"Greetings," I said in Peitouian, clearing my nostrils and spitting. I was gaining fluency, at least at saying hello. "I'm amazed you heard of our party. But it has lasted a long time."
	"Really?" Shaman said. "How long?"
	"A bit over a month, so far."
	"A Peitouian month?"
	"Yes."
	"I though I felt a hum in the prime line, but I had no idea."
	"The prime line?"  I asked.
	"The prime line.   You know, the galactic force which transmits news of worthwhile parties."
	"Oh." I had never heard of it and didn't believe it. "We must have caused a major hum."
	"What? A major hum?"      Shaman chuckled. "I felt a minor permutation. Thought   it stellar interference. Otherwise I would be late."  He laughed harder, Peitouian style, mucus flung this way and that. I pulled the sarong over my head.
	"A major hum! Har-hardy-har-har. Now the   party on..." He paused.  "I forget the planet. No matter.  That was a major hum.  Complete static. Lasted from 101  until 104." "Galactic years?" I asked.
	"Yes," Shaman replied. "Why?"
	"It's only 103."
	"Is it?" He cocked his head. "You're right. Party's still going strong."
	"Then how did you know about this?" I asked, insulted.  Stellar interference! It was my longest prime.
	"Fish."
	"What?"
	"Fish."
	"What?" I thought he was speaking Peitouian.
	"Fish, damn it. Fish. F-i-s-h. I heard you had some Mongkut fryfish."
	"Yes," I said. I didn't want know how he knew. I motioned to the kitchen and took the last fish from the freezer, hidden behind a pile of dead, frozen phlems. At least I thought the phlems were dead; the fryfish showed definite signs of nibbling.
	I handed it to Shaman. A phlem was attached to the tail. Shaman flicked it to the floor with his deft fingers, honed by decades of guitar playing. The phlem landed on its back, its twelve legs flailing against the atmosphere.
	"Normally I believe in the sanctity of all life," Shaman said. "But phlems suck." He ground the bug into its base molecules with his boot. "Sorry, friend. Perhaps in the next life." His face took on a strange expression as he pushed the phlem's remains under the fridge. He looked at me.  "Do you believe in concurrent reincarnation?"
	"Perhaps," I said. "Hard to tell since I don't know what it is."
	He raised an eyebrow. "You don't know the export religion very well, do you?"
	“It's just a product." I looked at Shaman. "Isn't it?"
	"Oh, no. It comes from Jungo and is very real. The Peitouians just realized it could be packaged and sold to Earth. Disrespectful, but profitable. Hard to argue with that. I'm not sure if the Supreme Being would like it, but who knows nowadays?"
	I spoke, more to stop his ramblings than to get an answer. I was sure there was no God in the export religion. "So what is concurrent reincarnation?"
	"A fair question. There are no dumb questions, only stupid ones. Concurrent reincarnation is the belief that all time exists side by side and..."
	I interrupted. I knew what reincarnation was. "When you die, you come back as another being, its makeup determined by how well you lived your prior life. For example, if you lived a terrible life you might come back as a cockroach."
	Shaman looked down. "Or phlem. I have a terrible feeling I just stepped on myself."
	It made sense. Why else would a frozen phlem spend its last lifeforce crawling to and eating a hallucinogenic fish if it wasn't Shaman?
	"Oh well," Shaman said. "And so it goes." He toyed with his fish and grabbed a fungus pop from the fridge.
	I motioned towards the microwave. We had one of the first on the planet; Gramps had brought it from Earth. It was one of the few product lines in which the export restrictions had worked; the Earth monopoly had only allowed a few rangetops in.
	Shaman took a swig of fungus pop. "No, no," he said. "Much more potent raw." He raised the fryfish to his mouth and took a bite. I turned away as the colorful organs were revealed. Shaman smiled at my reaction. "Or rare, if you prefer that terminology," he said. He belched then slurped a phosphorescent intestine hanging down his chin into his mouth.
	His eyes dilated, growing purple. Maybe he was right; when the fryfish was cooked it took several minutes for physiological symptoms to appear. Shaman smiled non-symmetrically.
	"Well, Earthling. What's new?" he asked.
	I told him about the cognizant VD. I thought of all people he would understand.
	"Wonderful. You are a lucky man. Blessed are the Greeks. How is your civilization?"
	"What?"
	"How is your civilization? For as mankind is a parasite to the Supreme Being your friends are a parasite to you.  To be nurtured and loved."
	"The Supreme Being loves mankind?" I asked.
	Shaman's pupils obscured the whites of his eyes. "Who knows? It makes a nice analogy. What does your crotch tell you?"
	"I think I killed them."
	"That is truly a strange message. 'I think I killed them, "' he repeated. "What could it mean? Perhaps they are saying. . . "
	"No," I said. "First person. Not the message. I, as in me; think, as in a cognitive process; I, again as in me; killed them -- I wiped them out. They are dead. That is not the message they welted onto my dick! "
	Shaman realized what I was saying and screamed.
	"What? "
	I also screamed since somebody had cranked the ghetto blaster up. "...Everybody is their own personal savior...." it blared.
	"I killed them," I repeated.
	Shaman was incensed, tearing his shirt off, dancing about the kitchen. Just as suddenly he calmed down. It was an impressive psychotic display.
	"I am an Earthling," he said. "I think. Or was. I certainly resemble one biologically. Or so I am told by females of various species." He raised his arms, speech-like. "And I believe them!"
	His pupils were now glow-in-the-dark purple.
	I turned off the light to be sure. My fryfish was kicking in. Shaman's head was mutating into a fish's.
	"No," I yelled. "What you are is a fishhead!"
	We collapsed to the floor in laughter. After several minutes we regained our vocalizing ability, to a certain degree.
	Shaman covered his eyes from the violet mine were now producing. "You too are ... fishhead!"
	Another several minutes later, we regained our vocalizing abilities, to a lesser degree.
	I turned the light back on, nauseous from the four purple spotlights flashing on and off as we blinked.
	Shaman turned to me, gills flailing. "What do excuse me, did your ... do you realize you have stuck a blow against intergalactic symbiosis?"
	"Yes," I replied. "And I don't care. I like crossword puzzles, but not on my...R
	"Penis." Shaman's eyes gleamed even in the bright kitchen light. Despite the colorful organs and unsightly intestines I would have to try a fryfish raw. If I ever had the chance. Shaman had consumed the last one we had and supposedly they were extinct.
	"My thought," Shaman said. "It has escaped like a slimeslug's soul on potassium. Oh yes. Knowing Earthlings' love for their reproductive organs, since I am one and have one, I understand. Actually you could argue I really am just a reproductive organ, passing on my mitochondria free of my own will. Intergalactically, an option few or perhaps none of my forefathers had the option of doing....
	He pondered. "In fact, there is a high probability I have spewed my seed among more species than any man in history.
	He slid closer to the floor, a physical impossibility.
	"My symbiotic guest ... host, perhaps, while being true companions, seems retarded."
	"What do they say?" I asked.
	"Buy low, sell high."
	"Good advice, though."
	Shaman attempted to sit up but only melted further into the floor. I put my foot over the drain, a reaction I first thought silly, but which made more and more sense as Shaman liquefied.
	"How did you kill them?" Shaman asked. "Just curious."
	"By taking a bath," I said.
	"Hmmm. Never tried that.   What do ... did they say?"      
	"Nothing that made sense.  'Hadean. Wanted.'"
	Shaman solidified, then was on his feet staring down at me.
	"Hadean?"
	I stood, uncomfortable with a hominoid with purple laser-beam eyes dominating the conversation. I was two inches taller than Shaman, no midget in his own right. The height advantage helped relax me, as it always did.
	"Yes. Hadean. Do you know what it means? The word is not in any dictionary."
	"It hasn't been translated yet," Shaman said. "Hadean -- are you sure?"
	"As sure as any combination of letters an alien infection has tattooed on my tubeworm."
	"Tubeworm?" Shaman asked, blinking purple laser beams.
	"Oh, yes. Current Earth slang." He laughed. "Hadean!"
	"So what does it mean?"
	"Hadean is a planet -- a planet beyond the known universe. The Jungonese say it is where the Supreme Being resides..."
	Before he could finish several Earthling females dragged him off. Shaman did not complain, knowing the point when it was useless to argue with hormones. Whether they be his or someone else's.

CHAPTER 16

	The party continued. All Earther teachers were there -- except Shaman, last seen heading to the spaceport with the remnants of a colorful fryfish organ stuck to his left incisor. Most identified it as a stomach, possibly a gall bladder.
	Such speculation was pure guesswork since nobody had ever analyzed the internal organs of a Mongkut fryfish.
	Somewhere during the height of the party it occupied the entire building. The other residents at first accepted it, willing to share their living rooms in trade for impromptu Earther lessons, but grew tired from the lack of sleep and the increasing inability of the Earthlings to use Earther, let alone sign language.
	But eventually the party worn down; as time progressed gravity took its toll. Like always. In the beginning the party's inertia was strong enough to counter gravity's pull, even reject it totally. But in the later weeks the party began to collapse on itself. Soon it was constrained to only our dink, then just the living room. An analogy filled my brain, helped along by a diversity of interactive substances. Brain barrier cruisers, as we now called them. More slang to pass on to high-paying client.
	At the rate the party was collapsing it would become that parties of parties -- a black hole from which no one escapes.
	Alive, of course. Dead, who knows?
	The stellar collapse was averted by the legislative arm of the Peitouian government, of all things. It passed a bill declaring the party over. Not because of the building's Peitouian residents who demonstrated at the Capital, protesting the loss of their apartments -- votes meant nothing on a pseudodemocracy like Peitou. It was because Earther teaching on Peitou had ceased.
	Peitou's export-based economy was at stake. Its trade surplus grew daily. Earther was the essential lubricant and without teachers and translators the gears of intergalactic trade were grinding to a halt.
	Things moved fast on Peitou, I had read when on Earth. But there was no way to explain how fast. Just a few decades ago it was a backwater orb where you would be lucky to find toilet paper....
	That's a bad example that needs rephrasing. You still could not find toilet paper in public restrooms -- in fact, that was why I did not considered Peitou an industrialized planet. It's a simple rule of mine, which I judge alien civilizations by: an advanced one can keep restrooms stocked with toilet paper.
	It's just not that hard.
	Howabout: Just a decade ago you could not buy toilet paper if you had wanted to.
	It was not until I had some familiarity with Peitouian culture did I realize it was changing daily, exponentially diversifying towards that universal goal: progress. A month ago, the government could not have enforced a law ending the party. But the infrastructure was solidifying; a thin veneer of civilization coated the planet. Troops arrived at the party and threatened everybody with deportation if they did not sober up and go back to work. All knew it was a hollow threat but welcomed the excuse to save face, go home, and sleep for a week.
	Going back to work, I noticed changes. There were more billboards in Earther. Consumer electronics filled the stores; Earth Today ran an article on Peitou's domination of Earth's holostereo market. More Peitouians spoke Earther on the street; language busking was less profitable. It was if Peitouians were grasping the language despite the fact a few months ago they couldn't read the bus numbers. Worse, the legislature was considering licensing Earther teachers.
	The rumor alone drove enough teachers from the planet that the idea was withdrawn. But I suspected the law would soon pass.
	Peitou was quickly evolving into a finely tuned Earther-speaking-profit-making-world, its only purpose to produce and export. Already cries were heard from Earth of unfair trade practices and illegal product dumping. I could see the change; the entire planet had a focus, a purpose. The population was beginning to think as one, all bent on achieving what they thought was the universe's number one goal: wealth.
	Maybe it is. I'11 ask the Supreme Being if I ever see Him.
	Peitou had adopted capitalism as a lifequest.
	Previously unknown in the Brim system until contact with Earth, capitalism had become the chosen religion. Brimmers did not see it as an economic system characterized by the private or corporate ownership of goods, but as a service and a homage to a God. A living and breathing God, metaphysically, one that was very visible and truly omnipresent. One for which worship and strict adherence to religious dogma worked, in a day-to-day sense.
	Who paid in cash. Who could blame the Peitouians?
	The religion's influence was bad on Zippon, but worse on Peitou. It was an easy and profitable dogma. It did not comment much on the afterlife but who cared if you were having fun now?
	And if Peitouians ended up dominating intergalactic trade it was Earth's fault, rushing in before the planet could be properly studied. The initial Earthlings saw a backwards, stagnant planet and assumed the Peitouians were primitive. They were, but once capitalism replaced their native religion of cyclical rebirth in which nothing is worth doing because you will just have to do again in the next life, there was a focus, and ends with a purpose. The Peitouians were ready for something to do and the message had come from the sky:
	Make money.
	They didn't concern themselves what they would do with it. Perhaps later. The Supreme Being help us when Peitouians discover leisure -- and travel. I shutter at the thought.
	The first galactic anthropologists to visit Peitou had noted that the natives seemed extremely slow to learn, only later to reach a point where a threshold was overcome after which everything came easy.
	Those research articles hadn't made it passed obscure journals; the warnings were ignored -- worse, not even read. Very little money in anthropology, you know.
	The Peitouians had crossed the threshold.
	The times were a-changing. Hourly. It was engraved in the smog. Having no other examples to chose from they not only adopted capitalism but all the features from Earth that appeared necessary to support it, whether they did or not -the Peitouians had no way of knowing. How could they? It was just a massive system of prepackaged culture and behavior.  Laws. Internal Security. Stoplights. Driver’s licenses.  Traffic tickets.
	Soon they would enforce even those laws that are the apex of society -- and the first sign of its decline: tax laws. Next comes regulation of sexual acts with willing miners and non-conscious species. Then the government decides it could regulate what you do with your own body.
	Abortion. Sin taxes. Health warnings on deathsticks and intox. Drug laws. Drunk driving becomes illegal.
	The Supreme Being help us. They were turning the place into Earth.
	I couldn't complain. No high-paid expatriate bum that called himself a teacher because he spoke Earther could. It was our fault: the language mercenaries. We were to blame, emissaries who peddled the knowledge of how to conquer Earth. We didn't plant the seed but supplied the fertilizer- We laughed at the high pay, assuming we were getting paid to feed the locals shit -- money for words. But the Peitouians used our shit productively.
	May bon fa. Loosely translated from an ancient, extinct Earther lingo, it meant "There is nothing I can do, there is no solution, so don't ask me for one because I will shrug and look skyward."
	I felt so guilty I asked for a raise. And got it.
	As I looked skyward.

CHAPTER 17

	The expatriates began leaving Peitou in droves. For many it was not the first time a planet had become too developed to cope with: they had migrated from Zippon after its drug regulations were enforced.
	Of course, they had first migrated from Earth. The most regulated planet in the cosmos, next to Wee Wee, a place where you couldn't piss without permission. But most teachers had been gone so long that Earth was only a sputtering neuron.
	That was the sign, they said: when a planet regulated drugs. There might be laws on the books but when they were enforced it was over. If development reached the point where a government was concerned about an individual's abuse of their own bodies it was migration time.
	There were other planets to choose from in the Brim system; Mongkut, where capitalism was beginning to take hold. Sadly, it was fast becoming not the pleasure planet but the pleasure-for-profit planet. The natives' thought patterns were changing from simple enjoyment of existence to an overwhelming desire for consumer products. Of course, from a language mercenary point of view it also meant increased demand for Earther teachers.
	Ying and yang. May bon fa.
	The adventurous chose Hukipine, a fun but dangerous planet always at war with itself. It was unstable but exciting. Pay was low not from demand -- like for all planets Earther was essential to enter the galactic economic system -- but from a poor economy. Hukipine was a planet of freedom; the ruling party's concern was staying in power. It had few resources to waste on individuals who wanted to destroy themselves. It was a popular choice for language mercenaries.
	I was considering Hukipine. I had enough credits to hire a security force if necessary. Actually, there were laws on the book forbidding everything -- even prostitution, if you can believe it.  But few were enforced, like on Peitou when I arrived.    Laws that were enforced revolved around attempting to kill the President. Anything else was OK.
	Some chose Jungo. The planet was attempting to industrialize despite its overwhelming population. Pay was also poor, but the swarms of cognizant beings eliminated any serious enforcement at ground level. It was also safe for Earthers and some were attracted to its religion.
	There were other choices: Wee Wee, high paying but extremely restricted -- even bhang possession was the death penalty. Sarkar, dirt poor. There was no hope of employment beyond subsistence wager but the mountains were tall and native attitudes good -- for now. The average teacher had enough credits to live like a king, anyway, if he didn't mind taking a dump outside.
	I chose a planet in another galaxy.
	I already knew the first thing I would do when I got there: go to Central Park and look at the Tree. If it still survived.
	Earth. I decided to head home. I didn't think I would stay long, having permanently activated my adventure gene. I could never again settle for a routine existence. But I was homesick.
	I had another excuse: I wanted to move my harvestclones to Zippon. The ache in my liver from the fungus pops worried me. I decided to grind through another month of teaching my clients how to dominate intergalactic trade. That was about all I would last anyway. I was already bluffing, since my clients had progressed beyond my knowledge in many subjects. I had resorted to teaching the two most difficult parts of Earther for Peitouians: slang and the use of the word fuck.
	They could not grasp fuck's versatility, a verb and a noun, able to be used anywhere in a sentence.  The fact it had more meanings than The Bible contributed.      And that the meanings varied with inflection or from the words around it.
	Fuck! Fuck me! Please fuck me. Fuck you! You're fucked! I'm fucked up. Don't fuck with me! Fucking right, motherfucker. A good fuck. Fucking fantastic. What the fuck? Fuck, yes.
	Slang was also difficult since it evolved quickly and made little sense. But they were grasping even it; a month was stretching it.
	How does that song go?
	"I don't know the words to this song. So I just make them up as I go along...."
	But who knows? How does slang start anyway? Maybe my clients would spread mine far and wide.
	I looked out at the class. "Pretend you are mad at somebody. Very mad. Your mother has just been insulted. How would you respond, using the term 'fuck'?"
	A female in the back raised her arm.
	"You should be fucked."
	"No, no," I said. Another student raised her hand and stood.
	"Be quiet or I will fuck you."
	"No," I said. "You are using fuck sexually, not as an insult. Anyone else want to try?"
	A Peitouian named Golden raised his hand.  Six months ago he couldn't get past "Hello, how are you?"  I pointed and he stood. He was so short and fat it appeared a forward motion. I knew he lived, breathed, and ate Earther culture. It showed. Maybe that was how we would win the invisible war -- with saturated fat and cholesterol.
	"Shut the fuck up, motherfucker!" Golden screamed.
	"Correct," I said. "Let's switch to slang. Monkey sperm! You are all monkey sperm! Who can tell me what that means?"
	"I believe it an insult," Golden said. "Monkeys were a primitive form of primates, of which humans share an evolutionary path. Sperm is the male reproductive fluid of Earth lifeforms. I think you are calling us unproduced offspring of an inferior but similar race, a derogatory..." Sounded good to me. I added the term to my vocabulary.
	"You are correct, Golden." I couldn't pronounce his real name, not having enough phlem to do so. And I had given up learning Peitouian as obviously all the natives would speak Earther soon. Peitouian would fade away like the thousands of Earth languages that didn't produce enough wealth, perhaps contributing a word or two before they were regulated to the realm of linguistic hobbyists.
	I thought for moment. "Pissant...."
	"You've taught us that," the class yawned in unison.  "Oh. Of course -- I was testing you. Butt slime...."

CHAPTER 18

	And so it went. The month passed like fungus pop through my liver: it hurt. The night of my last class my clients demanded to take me to dinner. Dredging up what I knew of the local cuisine, I resisted. But they would not give up. I must go, they said. It was tradition. I would disgrace them if I did not. I suggested an Earthling restaurant but they said it must be Peitouian.
	I gave in. I might return in need of income, despite the billion credits on my EarthEX card. Who knew? I was wealthy but had experienced enough of the universe to know not to assume what was reality today would be tomorrow. Past performance was no guarantee of future results. If I needed a job when I returned I would need clients. And I could pick up some new slang on Earth; knowing its evolutionary pace it would have changed dramatically since I left.
	So I agreed to the dinner despite the fact I had barely sampled Peitouian food, relying instead on Earther fastfood. I knew Peitouians consumed everything that was digestible. They had already wiped out many species of local fauna in their search for delicacies and projections showed they would eventually eat every animal on the planet, except domesticated ones raised for mass consumption. And when they ate an animal, they ate an animal. Born of a famine culture, they ate the meat, the bones, the blood, the organs. It was all fungus of course, but I retained my Earthling dietary prejudices. Especially against organs.
	We went to a very expensive restaurant. I assumed my clients would be paying but left my EarthEX card home just in case. We sat at a table reserved for Earthlings, twice the height of other ones. My clients sat in the gigantic chairs, legs dangling high above the floor, using pillows so they could reach the table.
	Golden filled our glasses with deerpiss. I suspected his true purpose was to watch me gag, to humiliate the teacher. He had no way of knowing I was well versed in that medium. I raised my glass and gave the traditional toast challenging all to empty their glasses.
	"Hoot uhggpheu," I said, downing the liquid.
	My clients followed.
	Golden put his glass down. "I didn't know you spoke Peitouian," he said. "You speak very well."  He jumped off his chair and waddled to me.  "I am honored." He bowed, an easy task when you are a meter tall.
	I decided he was serious. He waddled to his chair and, with some effort, climbed back up.
	Each client issued their "hoot uhggpheus" and the tube of deerpiss emptied quickly. Golden ordered another. Thank the Supreme Being, because the food was beginning to arrive; I thought the odds of holding it down were better if I had a good prime.
	Waiter after waiter brought plates and pots of various size, all filled with grayish matter I assumed was food. A large turntable occupied the center of the table, so everybody could reach what they wanted with a spin. The head waiter brought what I guessed was the piece de resistance, placing a large, covered, metallic soupbowl in front of Golden.
	Golden lifted the lid off. I peered inside. A soggy reptilian head floated in a thick broth, its cranium previously cut through, now held together by string. I turned my head, pretending to look out the window, as Golden pulled the string out and the creature's brain saw light for the first (and last) time.
	"A delicacy," he said. "Bing Floom brain. For honored teacher." He dipped his spoon into the now aquatic brain, ceremoniously handing it to me. I called his bluff and smiled as I swallowed.
	Only my years of holding back inter that wanted to come up at inopportune times, like during sex, kept the smile on my face and the putrid morsel in my stomach.
	"It is delicious," I lied. "Bing Floom must be a popular dish. And very expensive."
	Golden laughed. The others at the table looked at him. "Excuse me, honored teacher. I must translate for you." He spat off in Peitouian. Everybody laughed. Golden looked at me. "Yes, very expensive," Golden said. "But not so popular anymore." He translated what he had said and the table exploded in laughter.
	I smiled politely. Golden had learned to read Earthling facial emotions a month ago and saw my confusion. "Why do you laugh?" I asked.
	"Yes," Golden said. "It is very, very expensive. But no longer popular." He was laughing so hard I scooted my chair back to avoid the mucus.
	"Why is it funny?" I repeated.
	He could barely get the words out, tears streaming from his eyes. "Because it is the last Bing Floom on the planet!"

                     
CHAPTER 19

	I survived with minimal complications, awakening the next day with only a hangover. The deerpiss must have killed whatever alien parasites were lurking in that final Bing Floom's brain. If there were any, good luck: no more Bing Flooms to leach off.
	I took a hovertaxi to the spaceport. Hovertaxis were a guaranteed adrenaline hit. There was nothing wrong with a natural prime, as long as you lived to tell the story. Taxis flew, with a visibility of two meters, at incredible speed through amazingly packed airways. How collisions were avoided was beyond comprehension. Likely they weren't. Taxi drivers had short lifespans on Peitou.
	But my driver looked a veteran, face withered and teeth blue from bugnut. Bugnut was a locally grown seed that had two properties when chewed: it was a potent stimulate and it excreted a thick blue liquid that stained teeth with repeated use. It was popular with lower strata of society; a poor man's loid with dental disadvantages.
	Like most cabbies, on Earth or Peitou, mine spoke no Earther. He flashed a blue smile as I climbed in, juice coagulating on his chin. The stimulate shone in his pupils; I was in for a ride. The adrenal glands prepared, and I searched for the safety belt unsuccessfully. Needing some security I bummed a deathstick. Despite my dismal language abilities there were two survival tools I could secure on any planet. Important ones: a beer and a deathstick.
	The trip to the spaceport was short. I saw why my cabby was a veteran, still alive. He jinked and janked like an Olympic hovercar slalom gold medalist. Death was avoided at every turn. I almost renounced my atheism but couldn't remember if I was really agnostic.
	I left a large tip; my cabby drooled blue his thanks. I was early but spent my time at the gate instead of the bar. Space travel was no longer a novelty. I had opted for first-class unconsciousness for the trip. Expensive but worth it. My only worry was my layover in Zippon; hopefully they would wheel me to the correct connecting flight.
	Stories abounded of Earthlings flying unconscious, to be awaked on some nuclear dump planet in a solar system barely charted. As the flight attendant strapped the inhaling mask over my mouth, the pilot spoke on the intercom.
	"I'm Toot Hemmp, your pilot on this short flight to Zippon, with connecting flights to Earth, Jungo..."
	I was sure he was the same pilot that had brought me to Peitou. His Earther skills were approaching mine.
	I awoke on Earth; in customs. My attendant smiled when she saw me open my eyes and waddled away. Dizzily I stood. I had no checked luggage, besides myself. I grabbed my carry-on bags and made my way to the custom attendant. Despite my appearance; my hair had quickly grown back, as did a beard, he waved me through without a glance. Once again I could have smuggled billions worth of drugs. I stumbled to the spaceport lounge to overcome my confusion. The sleep drug made me groggy but the strangeness of my home planet contributed.
	Earthlings were everywhere; their height astounded me. And ganqliness -- walking sticks! I felt the alien, even though I was taller than most. Many were using slang terms I had never heard. And the smell! I had forgotten that Earthlings dosed themselves with sweetened chemicals to mask their scent. It was nauseating.
	I collapsed in a booth and looked out the window. I could see perhaps a half mile, an incredible distance compared to Peitou. The waitress approached, and I ordered a barley pop and a porterhouse steak -- range beef no less, despite the cost. The waitress quickly returned with my beer and I gave her my EarthEx to run a tab. I planned to stay awhile while my neural routes reestablished themselves.
	I knew the world had fundamentally changed when Earth beer tasted vile. Somebody else said it first, but they were right: there was no going home.

CHAPTER 20

	My plan: sit until a sufficient prime had developed to cope with this strange world where mammalian stick figures ruled. The steak tasted good; I knew it would after eating hamburgers since Supreme Being knows when -- how long had I been gone? I couldn't remember.
	I gave the waitress a large tip since she gave me her phone number. I suspected with my fifth beer -- barley pop on Earth -- she questioned my finances and ran a credit check. Spaceport food was expensive; but of course not like on Peitou. The waitress had been treating me like spaceslime, no surprise since I resembled some. But after that fifth beer I was the funniest, most exciting guy in the world. I didn't know how rich I was. You didn't keep track of those things on Peitou. One billion? Two?
	Enough for serious partying on Peitou. On Earth, enough for ... well, almost anything. Certainly enough for a waitress's phone number. And I hadn't been with a fem Earthling for some time. I stuffed her number in my pocket. I had few friends on the planet and interspecies copulation had a nice ring.
	What to do?   For the first time I wondered about my contract spouse.  I had never sent any form of communication from Peitou, not even a holocard. My sixth sense said to leave that one alone. I checked my cyberwatch, reset for Earth. A memory surfaced from deep in my brain, likely from the reptilian portion as it gave me an inexplicable erection. Yes, best to remain incognito. My wedding contract had a week left. And reading the visible manifestation of my subconscious, I would probably sacrifice all for a fluid squirt.
	The last thing I needed was my contract spouse finding out I had Supreme Being how many credits and filing for half. It was pretty stupid to return before the wedding contract was dissolved. Then again, I've always thought human intelligence was overrated. Especially mine.
	I knew her haunts; I could avoid her. I decided not to alter my slime-like appearance just in case; I could plead poverty and she would believe me. Besides, I was proud of my ponytail and beard. Let those follicles be free.
	Another neuron fired: if I was arrested -- not that I was planning to be -- internal security would run a hair analysis, standard procedure during arrests on Earth. Hair was a chemical dump, admissible evidence for substance abuse. No matter if the drugs had been consumed on Earth. You couldn't have an illegal drug in your system, and the courts held that your hair was part of your system. And it didn't matter if the drugs were consumed months ago in the distance reaches of the universe.
	Which they had been, of course.
	Nails were also chemical dumps, but the courts had ruled that pulling -- or even clipping finger or toenails was an invasion of privacy, a violation of constitutional rights. The court said that since hair fell out daily and nails could theoretically grow forever, clipping or pulling them was a personal affair.
	What a challenge I would be! Loids never thought of. Pharms made from Supreme Being knows what -- fungus, probably. Designers. And fryfish.
	I smiled at the waitress, who got cuter by the beer. They still tasted foul but didn't hurt my liver. Harvestclones:  that was my purpose. The homesickness was already gone:   remembering Earth's restrictiveness cured it.
	I weighed options. I could cut my hair and look human. The worst that could happen if I ran into my contact spouse -- and she found out I was rich -- was she would take half. I could make that back on Peitou. If I didn't cut my hair, I might I get arrested; not impossible since I looked a radical spiv and had forgotten many formal rules of Earth. Not to mention informal ones.
	On Peitou you did what you wanted when you wanted, with no concern about anyone or anything. Or used to. Who knew what changes had occurred since I left?
	Not primed, I probably could keep track of what was legal behavior. Primed was another matter. And I assumed a prime would be norm.   I was getting there now.
	I had to shed my locks and, for that matter, all body hair.  Not just once, either -- continually, since the hairs not yet formed had enough chemicals to do me in. Accidentally running into my contract spouse and losing half of my fortune was better than a sentence in a nuke plant or "salvage mine" -- the immense projects in ancient landfills which excavated rare commodities.
	Was I paranoid? Probably. I already had the suspicion I was being watched. Then again, better paranoid than finding out you should have been.
	A barbershop was out; collecting hair samples was standard procedure. Barbers earned a commission if they discovered a "threat to society." I could go to an underground spiv barbershop; I knew one. I had visited it before. It wasn't really a spiv barbershop, more for suits with a deviant gene. It played up its spivness to attract radical suits; it seemed dangerous, but wasn't. But I didn't trust even my old barber. I would be too rich of a reward with the cornucopia in my system. He would overlook bhang or some loids but not a chemical feast that would make Bacchus's intergalactic equivalent proud.
	I knew my barber checked hair samples and didn't turn in regular customers whose long-term business was worth more than the reward. I failed the criteria. Besides, I wasn't a regular customer anymore.
	I could bribe him. Not worth the risk. Worse than being arrested, the government could confiscate all assets with a drug conviction. I had no intention of paying off the Bloc's deficit.
	But hairless was no solution, either. A shiny pate would identify me as someone trying to avoid the law. If arrested they could hold me until my follicles produced.
	The true solution was to avoid trouble. But I knew enough not to trust myself. I needed a friend (preferably a well-stocked fem) who possessed scissors, razor, and hair remover. And willing to secure a wig.
	On my sixteenth? beer I struck up a conversion with the waitress. I was, after all, an interesting guy. I had been to the far-reaches of the universe and possessed enough credits to make CEOs weep. I hadn't noticed her nametag before. Cymon.
	"One more barley pop, Cymon. I've had a hard trip. Excuse me for being honest, but I have just returned from the far-reaches of the galaxy where Earthlings are rare. Barely escaped the jaws of reality many times. I must admit I have forgotten the innuendoes of proper conversations between Earthling males and females. Would you take offense if I said you are immensely attractive and I would like to get to know you, physically and mentally?"
	I was lying about the latter part.
	Cymon smiled. "Why else would I give you my number?"
	Good point. "What time do you get off?"
	She sat down. My unsolicited erection maintained its turgidity, which she took as an invitation. Maybe it was, maybe it was. "A half hour ago," she said.
	A good sign, I thought.

CHAPTER 21

	Cymon rented a dink on the west side of the megatropolis, near the airport. They were still called airports on Earth -- partially out of custom, but also because most flights were by airplane, between Earth cities.
	The west side was dangerous, if I remembered correctly, filled with spivs, the unemployed, drug-abusing subculture which gave the authorities trouble. I would have never considered visiting the area in my past Earthling life. I had entered the fringes buying that first tube of deerpiss at the Peitouian grocery store -- Supreme Being, it seemed another life. Cymon lived deep in what was known as Spivland; the most dangerous part of the city. Besides the walled-off parts.
	Before I would have been scared. But living on Peitou had numbed my fear. Every day there began with the life-threatening adventure of crossing the street. And I had discovered the universe was a much safer place than Mankind gave it credit for, if you minded your P's and Q’s. Danger existed, of course, but not enough to avoid doing want you wanted, when you wanted. Besides, the worst option was death, which would come anyway.
	And somewhere along the line I had turned into a spiv. In every sense, except my wealth.
	I could afford a hovertaxi but did not resist as Cymon loaded us into a landtaxi. As we drove through the streets I saw more spivs than I knew existed. On every corner there were happy campers playing sack, keeping the small ball aloft with their feet, or simply drinking inter and dancing to ancient music. Once or twice I caught a glimpse of drug use; even injects. My old Earthling self would have been terrified; my new Earthling self was relaxed. At home. It was Peitou without the easy job of speaking Earther at astronomical wages.
	Fine with me. I had enough credits. Spivland had few rules; the authorities had reached a symbiosis with the spivs and only entered occasionally.
	To say that Cymon lived in a small dink was a new use of the adjective. Microscopic was better. It consisted of one room, with a metal lattice containing the bathroom crudely built over the street. There was no subluxation device; the room you were in was it. There was not even a functioning elevator in the building; we had to walk the ten flights of stairs. She apologized about the climb, explaining the elevator hadn't worked since the Nationstate era. I reassured her that I didn't care. The less governmental influence, the better.
	For if there was one thing I had discovered on my intergalactic travels, it was that I was free. And if that meant forging for food or climbing ten flights of stairs, it was worth it. The government should be required to deliver electricity and water, and that was all.
	My definition of proper governmental requirements was not met by Cymon's dink. Electricity was delivered by a generator in the basement, to midnight on a good night, and water was non-existent.
	I didn't care. Just another step away from Big Brother. Big Phleck. Candles were romantic anyway. However, I ordered a sonic shower, which cleaned without water, to be installed. I could afford it, and suspected Cymon would reimburse me. Also, I was in dire need of a cleansing.
	Cymon was a rare commodity; a working spiv. That in itself was admirable. But I was enthralled by her life; her attitude despite her circumstances. Not to mention her physical attributes, only examined from afar. I expected to close the distance. I knew I would have to be careful; brain receptor sites were going wild. Interspecies sex!
	We smoked bhang, a natural plant-drug. I went mellow, and when the technicians installed the shower I started to give them a large tip before Cymon stopped me. She reminded me spivs were poor; the shower itself would cause suspicion.
	I took a shower, then Cymon rewarded me for my generosity. Interspecies sex had a fit to it I had forgotten. The various positions fit my anatomy well. And hers, judging by vocal output. Primitive neural nets fired as they were designed to do. Logic went out the window. Without Erotical, I add proudly.
	Ook, ook. What a monkey.
	Cymon was a well-designed. My brain smiled. Bing, bing. Neurotransmitters fired away, fitting perfectly with their receptor sights. My testicles released more hormones (I couldn't blame them) and I pulled her back to bed.
	Bing, bing, ook, ook.
	I knew I was following a carefully planned trap set by millions of years of evolution but didn't care. My pleasure center overrode cognizant thoughts. Logic was expelled with seminal fluid. I followed the path of billions of male apes before me.
	Sometime later, we awoke. She attempted to stand but I pulled her back.
	"No more," she said. "For now." She smiled. "You should lose your hair. Internal security has been running roadblocks. From what you've told me about your travels your hair could put you away until Sol explodes."
	"Do you have scissors and a razor?" I asked.
	"Yes, but you need a total job -- every hair. Head, beard, nostril, pubic. A professional is necessary. I know just the spiv." She picked up the phone; vocal only, no hole. Straight from PreBloc days. Nationstate era, in Cymon's terms.
	"Greetings. Is Jed there?" She smiled at me as she waited. "Greetings, Jed." She almost blushed but was incapable. "Thank you, Jed. Maybe tomorrow. Listen, I have a friend who needs a total." She smiled at me again. "Yes, a good friend. The one I told you about. Can you work him in? Good."
	She hung up the phone. "Jed can work you in if you hurry. Don't worry, it's safe. He has an alternate sewer to dispose of hair."
	I grabbed my clothes as she gave me the address. "Will you wait up for me?"
	Her smile had an evil glint which made me horny. "Futhark," she said. "Go or you'll never get your levis on."

CHAPTER 22

	I was glad to be free from government control but would have accepted a teeny bit -- enough to get the elevator running. My legs were shaky, my testes empty. My Cowper's gland was complaining but endorphins blocked the neural path as I hiked down the stairs.
	I stepped into dazzling light; the sun was much brighter than on Peitou. I shielded my eyes. Actually, the Peitouian sun, Upht, was brighter than Sol but its light didn't reach the surface. I put on smogglasses but they did not help. I needed to block the sunlight, not filter the smog. Earth was polluted, but not like Peitou.
	Sunglasses! And solblock! Some Earthling I was.
	I saw the red and white candycane of the barbershop on the corner. The streets were packed with spivs, all looking like the unemployed, drug-abusing, violent criminals they were. I saw an internal security cruiser hovering above. If I was attacked it would never reach me in time. I hid my fear as I made my way through the crowd. Then I glanced in a reflective window and could not tell which spiv was me.
	Stupid git. My brain had shifted back to Earth mode, complete with prior behavioral programs. Unconsciously, since my brain had been asked to follow Earth rules, I was my old Earthling self. But I wasn't.
	I was a spiv.
	And a radical one. While the males I passed were hairy, my ponytail and beard took the cake. Strange, though. During the cab ride I remembered males with much longer hair; some to the ground. Where were they now?
	I looked up again. The internal security cruiser came closer. My snail brain hummed. If it was the pinnacle of the evolutionary chain, I suspect bias in the rankings. I stepped inside a doorway. Internal security, no longhairs; anyone with suspicious hair was hiding. A master of deduction, my brain.
	I peeked out. The cruiser hadn't seen me and was hovering down the street. I turned to see where I was. At first I thought another barbershop because of the chairs, but the designs that hung on the wall rang a different bell. A tattoo parlor.
	"Howdy," said the owner, not looking up, engrossed in an issue of Sluts With Nuts. "New to these parts?"
	He could see right through me, I knew. A suit with hair. "Neg," I said, stroking my beard.
	"Want something?"
	"No," I said.
	"Thought as much," he said, still not looking up.
	Then again, what my spivness lacked was a tattoo. It would be a sign, a brand, of my choice of lifestyles. But I looked to hedge my bet, as always. It's likely the reason I was still alive.
	"Yes," I said. "Maybe. Do you have temps?
	He exhaled his deathstick's blue smoke and stood, carefully placing the magazine on the chair. "Thought as much. How long? A day? Har-har. An hour?"
	"A month?"
	"Got some that will last a couple."
	As I suspect other tattoo-goers had found before me, making the choice to be branded was easy. The hard part was choosing the symbol that would adorn you.
	I looked at the wall displays. Tattoo designs obviously had strong ties to nationstate times. I doubted even the artist knew what they meant, revolving around an ancient red, white, and blue flag, a large, extinct bird, and outdated weaponry. Others were more ancient: portions of human anatomy, focusing on skulls, femurs, and arrow-pierced hearts.
	"Earthling for Hire" on my forearm? Advertising for teaching and good for alien gigolo gigs. Or the universe's most feared creature across my chest -- the Jungoian giant paramecium, its foot long cilia ready to sweep you into its cell wall and absorb you molecule by molecule?
	Howabout "Hadean ... Wanted" on my tubeworm? Once, twice, never forgotten.
	Or an arrow-pierced heart with "Cymon" layered over it?  That would be well received later tonight.
	"Cool it," a cognitive part of my brain said.
	"Pump, pump, pump. Roll her over," a deeper layer said, demonstrating control over various involuntary muscles that twitched pleasantly.
	"You just met her. You want another contract spouse? You're not even divorced yet. Think, man, think."
	"Big, firm tits," Mr. Id said. "No gag reflex."
	"Of course she swallows," Mr. Superego replied. "She knows your net worth."
	"Well?" the spiv said.
	"What? "
	"What tattoo do you want?"
	"A big, fucking one across your chest," Mr. Id said.  "It will drive fems wild. Make 'em naked."
	"Let me think about it," Mr. Superego said.
	"That one," I said, pointing to a red dragon which looked remarkably like -- its head at least -- that last Bing Floom whose brain I had consumed.
	"Good choice. Remove your shirt and sit down," the tattoo man said. He handed me a microbong. "Free bhang with that one. Two thousand credits."
	I took a hit. "You take EarthEX?"
	"What's that?"
	I took it as a no. I had no cash. I removed my cyberwatch and handed it to him. I was tired of the constraints it put me under, anyway.
	He turned it over in his thick hands. It was worth ten times his asking price. He put it on his wrist and reached for the needle. I took another hit of bhang and floated away.
	"A masterpiece," he said, an undocumentable time later.       "Nice ceiling," I said, still dazed.
	"My best yet."
	"You do many ceilings?" I asked.
	He pointed at my chest.
	I stood and turned to face the mirror. It was impressive; beautiful by some demented standard. Covering my chest, the dragon's head looked forward menacingly from my neck, the artist effectively using what chest hair I had as a mane. Its frontal limbs radiated to my arms, and its tail wound a suggestive course just past my belly button. Homage to Bing Flooms. Good thing it was temporary.
	"How do you remove it?" I asked. "Not that I would want to, but just in case."
	"In case of what?" he said.
	"Rubbing intox or something?" I asked.
	He looked at my ... his, cybe, then spoke. "I felt that, because of your generous patronage of my art, I should reward you with my masterpiece, my work to last the ages." "So inter is out," I said.
	"For consumption, nor" he replied. "I had wanted to use the new subdermal technique for some time but had never found the proper canvas."
	"Subdermal?"
	"Yes. It took some effort but I have converted your cell's melanin production to match the overlying color scheme. Your new cells will produce even brighter colors ... my masterpiece will live throughout eternity."
	"Or at least until I die," I said.
	"No art lives forever," he replied.

CHAPTER 23

	I again invoked my personal mantra: the ancient, extinct phrase that summed things up more coherently than modern Earther could, even in Multi-volume book-club sets: may bon fa. The universe was not in my control.
	I recognized the ceiling and instead glanced outside. Longhairs were emerging from the shadows. Like the herd animal I was, I assumed the coast was clear. I nodded at the tattoo artist and walked outside.
	"You want your shirt?" he asked.
	"No," I replied, bhang echoing in behavioral corridors. "Keep it as a souvenir, as a reminder of your masterpiece."
	Male and female spivs alike stopped and marveled at my mobile Sistine ceiling. Fems especially; they pawed and groped. I arched my back and projected my chest.
	Cymon would go crazy, I knew. The neuronal war between brain levels resumed. Unfortunately, I was in the middle.
	"Damn it. Don't let millions of years of biological programming rule. Maintain control."
	"Damn it? Harsh words from a evolutionary pinnacle," Mr. Id said. "I know a better term:   fuck. And fuck you, Mr. Smarty Pants. Control? Christ!    What fun! Just because you're in the penthouse you think you are God's gift to brains. Oh, I'm so impressed. Use big words, plan for the future. Golly, what should I do tomorrow? Or the next day. What happens if I do this or don't do that? What happens when I die? Will I make an acceptable return on my investment? I'm so sick of it! She's got big tits and she screams. Fuck the rest."
	I could not help noticing that Mr. Id referred to "God" instead of the "Supreme Being"; the term I used now. I chalked it up to hard-wiring.
	Mr. Id then gave an impressive demonstration of what I thought were involuntary muscles, producing a woody capable of making Superman jealous.
	It was a good argument. Perhaps I would stay on Earth. I was rich and thoughts of a stable life with Cymon, a nice condo -- a real one; no more dinks, perhaps kids, filled my head.
	I entered the barbershop in a crouch. There was an EarthEX sticker on the window, luckily. The barber, whom I assumed was Jed, laughed.
	"Cymon must be losing her touch. Or gaining it. Would you like special service? Or perhaps special special service?" He pointed to several ferns sitting against the wall. They all smiled.
	"No, not" I said. "Just a total hair job."
	"You sure?" he said, nodding at my crotch. "Wednesday is two for one special special service day. And today is Wednesday, amazingly enough."
	I was sure it was Tuesday; I had just reset my cyberwatch for Earth time. I lifted my arm to check but was greeted only by a glaring white oval surrounded by red, fried flesh. Should have used solblock. Fifteen minutes under the Earth sun was inviting melanoma. And I didn't want skin cancer; I was strictly a lung cancer man.
	Wednesday? No reason to argue. No cybe for independent verification. And priapism was painful. Cymon might object, but Supreme Being -- I had only known her for hours. Certainly no contract.
	"Okay with me," Mr. Superego said. "Get these damn hormones out of our system."
	"Trim is trim," Mr. Id said.
	I pointed at two fems, corrected myself, and pointed at a third.
	Jed grinned. "A healthy spiv. Payment in advance."
	I handed him my EarthEX card and he zipped it through the scanner. "Let's see. It's two for one day, and you chose three. I have to charge you for two. Round up, you know. Learned that in mandatory." He motioned at the remaining fems. "You can choose one more."
	I closed my eyes and spun in a circle, arm pointing forward. It stopped on an elderly, overweight lady. She smiled. I spun again. This time I pointed between two; both stepped forward.
	Jed sighed. "Oh, well. Five for the price of three. Don't say I never gave you anything." He handed me a retina scanner to confirm the bill. I looked at the amount, shocked. I could afford it, but fifty thousand credits?
	Jed shrugged. "A total body hair elimination -- with an illegal dumping -- and five fems? Not cheap, bro." Crouched over, I was in no position to barter.
	I was led to a private cubicle, and I somewhere in there I lost every hair on my body; some I didn't know I had. But the fems knew where to look, and look they did. My Bing Floom lost his mane but it was replaceable. When they finished they bagged the hair, explaining it wasn't safe to use the drain. It had to be dumped in an illegal, non-monitored sewer.
	Once again I was as bald as a cueball: front, back, up, down, inside, outsider and any other directional coordinate you can ascribe to the human body. The lack of resistance spurred my tactile senses. One fem, whose name I forgot or never learned, left with the bag of hair. Eventually I passed out and, to my credit, took three remaining fems with me.
	An unknown quanta of time later I was shook violently awake. I opened my eyes. Two ominous figures, dressed in black and white, stood over me. Internal security.
	"Rise and shiner baldy," the first said, poking me with his nightstick. "Time to meet your maker." I looked at his insignia; a private.
	"Suck my vestigial organ, private," I replied.
	His partner rewarded me with a well placed blow in the solar plexus. "Vestigial?" he said as the first private cuffed me. "That some nasty word?" I assumed he decided it was, as he struck another pressure point. I collapsed.
	"Good vocabulary," I said, a glutton for punishment. I rolled into a ball awaiting a new bruise. None came. I looked up. The two soldiers were admiring the three still unconscious, naked fems.
	"Let's take 'em in," the first said.
	"Let's take 'em here," the second replied.
	The first one shrugged. "Better not. Captain said baldy is important."
	Buck naked in the true sense of the word, without a full follicle on my body, I was led from the barbershop. Jed shrugged as he handed over the bag of hair that was my doom.
	"Sorry bro," he said. "A spiv must make a living. If it is any condolence, the two girls still conscious would like a phone number to reach you when you get out. Probably the other three, too. If you do get out, of course. And something else..."
	"What?" I asked, as I was pushed into the cruiser.
	"Nice tattoo."
	"Thanks," I said.

CHAPTER 24

	I awoke in a white cell. I looked about. Quite comfortable, actually. Clean sheets, mini holoset, sonic toilet -- in the open, but my scatological inhibitions were long gone. It didn't matter to me. I could blow feces in front of anyone.
	I was amazed more spivs didn't get arrested just to relax. Then again this was a holding cell. Suits occasionally got arrested, and would demand early levels of incarceration avoid the cruel and unusual. The prisons, with their forced labor in landfills or nukes, were a different matter. How different, I would find out. I was hoping for a nuke plant - at least you knew the poison and if you were exposed, since the little badge changed colors. I had read stories of prisoners who had purposely exposed themselves to radioactivity so they could live the quickly waning years, sans teeth, of their stay as cognitive apes on a planet they did not create in a special section of the prison where no work was required. Endless holovids and plenty of sleep.
	It sounded horrible when I read it, long ago, but now seemed very rational.
	Better than the landfills, full of every toxic chemical the mind of Home Sapiens had invented. Every seeping step was an adventure in chemical acronyms. PCB, DDT, CDB, XYZ. You never knew if the glop you tracked back to the showers was targeted for your DNA or not.
	And wouldn't for years, until your lymph nodes resembled kumquats.
	I hadn't watched hole since I left Earth, aside from ancient 2D reruns that filled the airwaves in the Brim System. I turned the set on. The newschannel, HNN, was blocked, but several business channels worked. I checked for news of Peitou. The stock market had doubled since I left; now I had twice the credits to give internal security. Earth was pushing Peitou to open its deathstick markets, under threat of putting it on the Super-Duper 30026 list. The Super-Duper 30026 list contained the planets which Earth felt were engaging in unfair trade practices.
	I switched to a channel which propounded an ancient Earthling religion twenty-four hours a day, like it had since God only knew -- two centuries? The speaker was quoting from The Bible, the book on which the dogma was based. Its sales waxed and waned depending on the mood of the populace. I suspected they were rising with the seemingly eternal Earth recession.
	"...from Ecclesiastics: Wine maketh merry: but money answereth all things..."
	I had never read the book, dismissing it as ancient dogma, but the quote impressed me. I marveled a truth had held valid for so long. Naturally, I interpreted "wine" to mean all substances that caused a prime. Money was money. Nowadays people usually said "credits" but the term "money" remained extant.
	I turned the preacher off before he could quote something that would contradict what he had said.
	Wine and money. The Bible was right: if you hadeth botheth you couldeth answereth all thingeths merrily.
	I had neither. And was doomed. My hair would set legal precedents.
	Thought patterns were interrupted by the appearance of the only two internal security personnel I had had the pleasure to meet. I stood, feigning respect. I once was in the workforce; I knew how to brown-nose. I noticed my clothing; a regulation internal security prisoner jumpsuit, bright orange. It fit well. There were no pockets; I assumed so criminals could not hide guns, pharms, or Supreme Being knows what prisoners wanted to smuggle about. No pockets could be corrected if I ever saw sunlight again.
	"Time to meet your maker," the first private said, repeating a line he had used before. I was tempted to comment he should learn a new line but pretended he was my old boss and smiled like he was the wittiest human ever born. I also remembered his adeptness with his nightstick. I could read his nametag: "Hello. My name is Burt." "Hello, Burt," I said.
	Burt looked at his partner, surprised. His nametag said Adam.
	"Doesn't act like a spiv," Adam said.
	"I like the jumpsuit," I said. "What's it made from?"
	Adam and Burt looked at each other and laughed. Adam spoke, obviously the dominant male.
	"What's it made of? Indestructible synfab, able to repel any chemical you throw at it, that's what."
	"Why orange?" I asked.
	"So we you make a good target when you try to escape from a landfill," Adam said. Adam and Burt shared a good laugh, one given to humans who faced certain doom. It had been well practiced throughout humanity's history.
	I admired the jumpsuit. The perfect party outfit -with some pockets, of course. Able to withstand even Shaman's bodily fluids, which I hoped to again encounter despite the odds. I pledged that if I ever did get out I would make the suit my only clothing. With a multitude of various sized pockets, I wouldn't need carry-on baggage.
	Adam and Burt lead me down a long hallway. I glanced in the cells as I passed. Most were occupied by spivs acting like they owned the place. In a sense they did. Not individually, but as a demographic group. A few cells contained suits, staring out of the bars with expressions acknowledging they had crossed the line. They would be free soon, if it was their first offense. And the second, if they could afford a good lawyer.
	I was led to a pastel colored room, the center of which was dominated by what looked like a laptop with an intake manifold. Adam motioned me to sit. Being the model prisoner I was, I did.
	I recalled from a sociology class long ago about a right I didn't think I would need but was now happy about: a prisoner had the right to be present at a hair analysis; at his own doom. Excuse my sexism: or her.
	Adam and Burt hunched over the machine. Burt fed what I assumed was my hair -- it was the right color -- into the intake manifold. They were dying to see what I had digested. My file showed I had been living on Peitou, so they knew prospects were high they would find a cornucopia of unknown dimensions. Not to mention my net worth, which they surely had accessed in anticipation. I was good for something, a new feeling: I had the potential of being the highlight of these Earthling narcs’' lives, or at least for some coffee shop stories, which equated to approximately the same thing. My fur was gold to these boys.
	"Anus straight," Adam said. "Bhang, Sonic, twelve unidentifiable alkaloids, up pharms, down pharms, and many unknown compounds but naturally illegal if that spume sniffed, ate, absorbed, or injected them..."
	The other officers looked on in amazement, unconsciously biting their donuts. Burt interrupted Adam, who was so pleased at his bust he didn't mind.
	"Tell them about the credits, Adam...."
	Adam smiled. His hole card. "Oh, yeah. I forgot. The credits. Our spiv was intergalactic. A rich man."
	Burt was so excited a childhood affliction resurfaced. "T-t-t-e-l-l ... th-th-the-them...."
	Adam played his hand like an intergalactic arms merchant. He had even the veterans' attention, a card he would stretch as far as it would go. He looked at Burt.
	"Credits? Oh, yeah. The spiv had over four billion, now property of the Bloc government. Ten percent for the department -- four hundred million credits. Donuts are on me...."

	I awoke from my hallucinogenic projection. I looked at Hurt and Adam. They were daydreaming, eyes unfocused. For the first time I believed in sober telepathic communication. Doomed. I was doomed.
	The readout printed.
	"Adam, look at this," Burt said.
	Adam's faraway stare was broken. "Malfunction," he said. "Again."
	Burt dumped more hair into the machine, then grabbed the printout. "What does it mean?"
	"I don't know," Adam said. "A new pharm? Loid? This guy has been everywhere; probably something new, that we haven't heard of."
	"Is it illegal?" Burt asked.
	Adam thought, as much as possible for someone in the military, as he examined the printout. "It's weird. He's clean besides this mystery substance. No loids, no bhang, not even a trace of alum from inter containers. Nothing."
	Nothing? No alum, no bhang? It made no sense. The bhang wouldn't be in my hair yet, but alum from barley pop containers? My hair should be recyclable.
	Burt looked at the printout again. "Call the captain. He's smart; went to community college."
	The captain arrived quickly. He looked at the printout, then accessed the computer. I saw the first letter he typed:  Adam leaned over the terminal, blocking my view.
	"Nothing comes up," the captain said, standing. "Run it again."
	Burt sat down and accessed the keyboard as Adam poured in more hair.
	The captain looked at the new printout. "Whatever it is, it is not illegal. I don't understand. Impossible. His printout has no other substance. Not even a protein. The machine must be malfunctioning."
	Burt spoke confidently. "No, sir. I ran a check of my hair and confirmed I drank a six-pack of imported barley pop last week."
	"Imported barley pop?" the captain said. "How can you afford imported barley pop on a private's salary?"
	Burt was flustered. "It was my contract spouse's birthdate?"
	"Imported barley pop?" the captain said. "I hope you two are not shaking down spivs without cutting me a share."
	"No, sir!" Adam said, although the question was directed at Burt.
	The captain eyed me. "I don't know how you did it, but we'll find out. Your charges are still pending, until we decide what they are. We cannot detain you as your hair revealed no illegal substances. No legal ones, either. Except for..." He handed the printout to me.
	I knew the word.
	"Hadean," I said. "Can I keep the jumpsuit?"

CHAPTER 25

	Hadean? First letter capitalized, no less.
	Coincidence? Maybe. But why did the barber show positive results when the more advanced internal security machine read only "Hadean?"
	The Supreme Being's home planet?
	Actually, I didn't know if that was true. The information came from Shaman, a man whose venereal disease gave investment advice. Advice was one thing; knowledge of the Supreme Being's mailing address was another.
	But anything was possible in a universe that was made of quantum foam, a spume of nothing and everything. And if intergalactic travels had taught me anything, it was the universe was a strange place.
	Perhaps the strangest.
	Despite my release, internal security still had charges pending. They couldn't pinpoint what law I had violated but were trying hard to discover one because ten percent of my assets would fund many a policeman's ball. Interesting that "policeman's ball" retained the ancient term for internal security festivities. I suspected that "internal security's ball" didn't roll off the tongue well. The Earther language favored simplicity, even if it meant using antique terms. A complexity which made it more difficult for aliens to learn, and one I was thankful for.
	I knew all this because, despite my intentions, I had, somewhere along the line, become a real Earther teacher.
	I hired a lawyer. He got the charges against me delayed, as there was no drug named "Hadean." And whatever it was, it had no substance. No proteins, nothing. Internal security refused to drop my case, pending research. Their supercomputer showed no such drug, let alone word, existed. The mystery was of divine proportion.
	Despite my aversion with the profession, I enjoyed meeting with my lawyer, Gosu. Gosu was the best credits could buy and since I could afford him, was what I needed. Oriental, from PacRim Bloc, he was short and stocky, with black pupils that could kill if focused correctly. Or make a jury weep, if necessary.
	Until now I hadn't realized that lawyers worked both sides of the equation. I hadn't given it much thought. One of my contract spouses had been an attorney but because of her addiction to Erotical we had not discussed her work. Nor mine. To me, lawyers were another piece of the establishment, enforcing the rules that put people away, whether or not the crimes hurt someone else or not.
	Mine did not. The only victim was moi, to use an extinct Earther word.
	I used my intergalactic insight. All lawyers worked the same side, except for public defenders. Whether you were guilty of not was of no concern. Lawyers worked the side with money.
	Which I had. Thus Gosu.
	"I am your lawyer," Gosu said. "Our conversation is protected and can never be revealed." He smiled. "What is 'Hadean?' I experiment here and there."
	"You would not believe me," I replied.
	"Try me. An alien loid? Don't worry. Your charges will be cleared, no matter what the substance is. Despite your considerable assets, which internal security is drooling over. If 'Hadean' was not illegal at the time of your arrest, charges will have to be dropped. The next person who is arrested with Hadean in his hair will not be as lucky, though, once they develop its chemical compounds." He looked out the window. "Can you get me some?"
	"Do you want the truth?” I asked.
	"Yes," Gosu said, eyes expressing pitiful compassion. I wept for juries past and future. "Of course. The truth. I am your lawyer."
	"Really?" I said. "You won't believe me." I was confident of my statement. The fact I had no hair on my body, except invisible growths just emerging from follicles, and sat dressed in an prisoner's bright orange jumpsuit which I refused to remove was just the start.
	"Try me," Gosu repeated.
	"You sure?"
	"Yes . "
	"First let me ask you a question about the attorney/client relationship," I said. "If you think me insane, can you put me away?"
	"No," he replied. "Our conversations are confidential. And I would never consider revealing them unless you didn't pay your bill on time."
	Fair enough. Money was like gravity: a dominant force at macro levels.
	"The first time I heard of Hadean," I said, "was when an alien venereal disease imprinted it, letter by letter, on my pecker. Later, a friend, an excellent guitar player but likely insane, explained it was the home planet of the Supreme Being."
	Gosu was speechless for the first time in his professional life. Later, he managed a syllable.
	"Oh," he said.
	I sat quiet. A pain in my side developed; I looked out the window for a distraction,
	"Whatever," Gosu said. "There is no such thing as a insane rich man, unless his relatives hire me to prove otherwise. And, being your lawyer, I have checked your background. Obviously I was required to in case of your demise or conviction."
	"Which are the same thing," I said.
	Gosu laughed professionally. He saw me as a wealthy psychotic. I was sure he was familiar with the species.
	"Yes," he said. "I suppose so. I know you have no relatives, except dead ones -- as do we all. They unfortunately have no rights. And your latest wedding contract expired while you were in the brink."
	Gosu looked disappointed. "Brink?" I asked.
	"Jail," he said. "Prison. Archaic term."
	The pain in my side expanded. Then everything went blissfully dark.

CHAPTER 26

	I awoke in another white room. The holding cell again? I tried to lift my head. Supreme Being! I was restrained! Gosu had me committed!
	My story was a little off the wall, but to commit me?
	Gosu was likely collaborating with my ex-contract spouse, in an attempt to get at my fortune. Or internal security had agreed to give him a percentage if they could find an excuse to confiscate my assets.
	Paranoia! Big destroyer!
	I let things come into focus. Eyes, ears, brain. There was a beep to my left. I turned. My head wasn't restrained; it just weighed several tons. I saw a machine. My snail-brain inched forward: a hospital.
	My eyes cleared. Gosu was standing by the window. He caught my movement out of the corner of his eye and turned.
	"Ah. You survive. Good. Much easier to collect fees from live clients."
	"What happened?" I asked.
	"Your liver completely failed. Exploded. Or imploded; it was such a mess they couldn't tell. The doctors said it looked like a mutant fungus of some sort."
	"Fungus pop."
	"What?"
	"Fungus pop. Peitouian beer."
	"You are lucky you have such a smart, well-paid lawyer. When you collapsed in my office and were rushed to the hospital, I suspected a major problem. With your wealth, it seemed likely you possessed a harvestclone. I called all the clone banks to check. It took many hours, the exact amount I am unsure of.  If you're curious, check your bill. Finally I found yours.  By then the doctors had discovered your liver was a toxic waste dump. I rushed your clone to the hospital and here you are."
	He pointed at my tattoo. "The doctors tried to cut around your Bing Floom but I'm afraid the scarring will leave the tail a bit lumpy."
	"How did you know it was a Bing Floom? Have you been to Peitou?"
	"No. "
	"Then how did you know?" New conspiracy theories were intermingling as fast as neurons could search out their neighbors. I saw that something was behind all this.
	"Despite heavy sedation, you would not let the surgeons disfigure your tattoo. 'Save the Ding Flooms,' you repeated over and over."
	"Oh,” I said.
	"Excuse my ancient vulgarity," Gosu said. "But you are one bizarre motherfucker."
	I couldn’t argue.  "Will the harvestclone survive?
	"No," Gosu replied.  "They also replaced your lungs, beyond repair. And you were given a new line of nanomachines because the immense amount of plaque in your system had choked the ones you had. You are a party animal."
	Down to one clone. Better than nothing.
	"I see your thoughts," Gosu said. "The other clone died while you were off-planet. You left no forwarding address."
	I slumped in my bed, a neat trick since I was already as slumped as a human could be. 	"There's more, Gosu said. "Good news or bad news first?"
	It was my experience when that question was asked both sides were bad news; a matter of semantics.
	"The bad," I said.
	"Sterility. I requested a complete exam and to correct anything within your budget. An alien disease the doctors had never seen destroyed your reproductive system. You can still get a woody but will be shooting blanks. Various tumors throughout your system were found and removed. None were malignant. Also, they recommended you use solblock. You had a nasty burn on your arms and face."
	Sterile? There were no plans for reproduction, but I liked the thought that I could. Of course, I could always clone a normal human instead of a brainstemmed harvestclone. But it would be a duplicate of myself, and two of me had no place in this universe. Horrible enough with one.
	And it would be male. What if I wanted a daughter? The fun of reproduction was mixing your genes with the female of your choice and seeing what popped out.
	"You want the good news?" Gosu asked.
	"You tell me," I replied.
	"You do. Sperm stays alive in the testicles for some time. The doctors salvaged a few drops, so with artificial insemination you can reproduce. As your lawyer, I have taken the liberty to have your sperm frozen and stored. Meanwhile you can shoot blanks to your heart's content."
	It was good news. I smiled.
	"There's more," Gosu said.
	"Good news or bad news?"
	"Good. "
	A thought occurred to me. “How did you know when I would wake up?" I asked.
	"What do you mean?"
	"How did you happen to be here when I woke up? And how long have I been out?"
	"I am unsure about the exact amount of hours. Two days, approximately. More information to be gleaned from your bill. As your lawyer, I thought it best to stay until you woke up so to minimize your shock. Do you want the rest of the good news?
	"I guess."
	"There has been a technological breakthrough in growing harvestclones. I suspect you are not aware of it. Thanks to acceleration hormones, harvestclones now grow functional in six months. Knowing your abusive tendencies, I have ordered five."
	That was good news.
	Gosu continued. "And I have succeeded in having your charges dropped. It took a lot of legal wrangling and a not-so-small contribution to the policeman's ball, but it is done."
	More good news.
	"And," he said, "I have arranged for you to keep your prison jumpsuit." He walked to the closet and pulled it out. The orange flared against the white room. Gosu had even had a plethora of pockets sewn on. What a lawyer! Carry-on baggage, ha!
	"How can I thank you, Gosu?"
	"How all clients thank their lawyers. By paying the bill."

CHAPTER 27

	Enough of Earth, with its rules and restrictions. I had to get back to the Brim system before it evolved to a similar state. Another lesson of my visit: evolution wasn't always for the better.
	Evidence? Easy: humans.
	I was released from the hospital two days later; weak but looking great. Despite its lack of freedom, one thing Earth did possess was medical technology. My hair had emerged enough that I was sporting the marine look. The doctors had lipoed my beer gut and removed all wrinkles from my face. Combined with my liver and lungs, I was a new man. Ready to face whatever absurdity the universe had positioned around the next corner.
	And whatever it was, it would be there, I had no doubt. I had Gosu ship three of my harvestclones to Zippon.  He presented me with his bill and I did not attempt to count the zeros left of the decimal point. He was worth every penny, as the saying went.
	Thought patterns ran back to the bower movement that had started the whole adventure. My brain attempted to decipher a pattern but only came up with a multisyllabic term which wasn't much help.
	"Hmmm," it said.
	I should have been dead. If my liver failure had occurred anywhere else -- on Peitou, in Spivland, or even in front of the hospital, that would have been it, whomever it was, wrote. I had no health insurance so the hospital would never consider that a harvestclone was out there just dying to lose its liver. I owed it all to Gosu. I paid his bill.
	Not only wasn't I dead: I was healthy, had harvestclones, and shot blanks.
	What more could a man want? Besides knowledge if his actions would doom him to an everlasting pit, eternally tormented by fire and brimstone, where somehow his neural structure remained intact despite that fact he had left his body behind for the worms.
	Too much of The Bible channel, which I had watched while recovering, looking for another useful quote that never came. Perhaps they were scattered infrequently throughout the text. I ventured to a vending machine and bought a copy; I decided I would read it and withdraw the knowledge that suited my purpose and ignore the rest. I suspected I wasn't the first.
	A check of the business channel revealed Peitou's stock market had again doubled while I was in the hospital. I was richer than when my liver failed, despite Gosu's bill. Nervousness set in -- paranoia, big destroyer. Peitou's market was horribly overvalued, despite the planet's astounding success. It was a froth waiting to boil. I decide to consult an investment advisor when I returned to Peitou. I asked Gosu for a recommendation. He gave me his broker's card.
	I took a hovertaxi to the airport. It was a preprogrammed autoflight, devoid not only of a driver to bum a deathstick from, but of adrenaline. I booked a ticket to Peitou. I suspected it was now too civilized but it was a place to start and I wanted to look up the peer group. Better than Earth, in any case. My flight didn't leave for several hours and, having no baggage to check -- everything was in my jumpsuit, I went to the bar. The new liver needed testing.
	I was quite the sight with my jumpsuit and crewcut. The natural assumption was that I was a convict, which was true except I hadn't been convicted.
	The bar was a reflex, not a thought. I had no vengeance in my heart. As the divine comedy planned, I unknowingly sat in Cymon's section. She didn't recognize me at first. No beard, little hair, jumpsuit. Evils thought arose from my loins. Forgive and forget?
	Perhaps she recognized the pup tent. She brought a barley pop without me ordering. I downed it. Strong beer. No, virgin liver. It had never seen alcohol.
	"Hello," Cymon said. "How are you?"
	A born Earther teacher. Perhaps my brain couldn't forgive her but a more important organ could.
	She looked fabulous. I motioned her to sit down, which she did.
	"Take me with you," she said.
	"What? You turned me into internal security."
	"That was Jed's idea. He said we would split the reward fifty-fifty. You can't blame a girl for wanting to escape this hell."
	"No way." I was bluffing.
	"I'm pregnant," she said. "It's yours."
	The beer flew out of my mouth, supplanted by an explosive but remarkably restrained chortle.
	"Oh. I see," I said. "What about rejection?"
	"Death penalty," she replied. "Remember?"
	I had forgotten the vestigial Earth laws about pregnancy termination. I didn't think many cared anymore, except viewers of The Bible channel, but laws passed in PreBloc days were so ingrained in the Global Constitution that they could never be removed without destroying the document. And if individual continents, or whatever those political organizations were called -- nationstates -- saw a chance to escape from being ruled by a World Government, they would take it and run.
	Economically, things weren't working well on Earth right now. As always, the populace blamed the government, not themselves.
	"Oh," I said. "That changes everything."
	I had a trump card she didn't know about: I shot blanks.
	"Then of course you can come with me," I said. "What to name our child? Machiavelli! A suitable name for an Earthling. At last! I can stop my running and have the dozen kids I always dreamed about. In fact, we will stay on Earth. Peitou is too dangerous for a child. We can live with my parents...
	The parents were dead. I was bluffing.
	Wait! my brain said, draining the blood from my face. Gosu had said there were live spermatozoa the doctors had salvaged. Cymon could be telling the truth. Supreme Being! My last live shot had hit the mark.
	"I lied," Cymon said.
	Thank the Supreme Being. "I know," I lied. Despite the fact Cymon could not be trusted, my spume liked her spunk. You couldn't blame a girl for wanting to escape Earth.
	"But you can come," I said. "Do you have to pack?"
	"Nope,” she said. "What you see is what you get."
	Off we went.

CHAPTER 28

	Making the hyperjump while having the reproductive equivalent of an epileptic fit was a new experience and seemingly altered neural routes in charge of such matters. I was a walking hard-on after that.
	I set Cymon up with a dink, a teaching job, and some credits. She didn't need them, though. She quickly became the highest paid model on Peitou; blonde, well-stocked, Earthling fems were in short supply.
	Our relationship didn't last. Nor did I want it to, expect for the occasional biological union. It wasn't her; it was me. The break-up hit Cymon hard. She had formed a bond that I hadn't, or found easier to break. She pointed out my flaws as a male human; that I treated women as sex objects, that I was a little boy that would never grow up, that I would never be satisfied with life.
	I conceded every point. Ook, ook.
	I looked up my peer group. My phlecks; Peitouian for brothers. Only Gramps was left; I had guessed that would be the case. Shaman had not been seen since eating the fryfish although rumors circulated he was on the only ship to Hadean that survived. All other ships had mysteriously disappeared. Or dissolved. Sensors seemed to indicate the ships had instantly turned into hydrogen and helium, without an explosion. The fate of the ships was as big of mystery as Hadean itself. Scientists frothed at the mouth at the strange findings; they said no power known to man could cause such a dematerialization.
	I had to laugh.
	Hardy-har-har-har. No power known to man?
	Neon was on Jungo. A convert to the Peitouian export religion, he was seeking a/his purpose. I wished him luck.
	Manchild had returned to Mongkut to rule over his subjects. Gramps had recently received a barely coherent holocard. Manchild had declared his island a sovereign nation; he was Supreme Leader and did not allow outside contact aside from beer vendors. And friends. He invited us for a visit, indicating he had found a pair of fryfish and was breeding them for export so that his tiny nation would have income. He sounded happy, an Earther with a purpose.  No matter if the purpose mattered.
	Which one did?
	The rest of the peer group was as scattered as intergalactic dust. Which they were.
	I had no purpose of my own creation, but the Hadean thing was nagging at my soul. Something somewhere was hinting I should go visit. And now apparently Shaman was there. Another clue?
	Destiny? Maybe I had no free will. Maybe the Supreme Being desired my presence to ask me ... I don't know what knowledge I could impart to Him. Male bias again. Her? Species bias? It?
	The only subject I considered myself an expert in was intergalactic beer. But in this universe, who knew what was important? I did know my beer.
	My first advice? Beware of Peitouian beer; fungus pop. If you possess a liver, that is.
	My class was willing to hire me back; they assumed I had learned new Earther slang with my visit home. I hadn't of course, spending my stay in prison and the hospital, but was happy to make some up. I saw that I wasn't wasting their time -- by teaching them to see the meaning of "piss breath" and related phrases, I was really teaching them to think Earther; to make sense of whatever combinations of words I threw out.
	I asked for and received another raise.
	As the weeks dragged on, my sense of free will disappeared. Hadean would not leave my mind; it possessed my soul. It was an undercurrent of thought that interjected itself everywhere. When it appeared during ejaculation, a time when thoughts do not usually present themselves, things became clear: I would go to Hadean.
	I rolled off Cymon and lit a deathstick. We still saw each other socially. I coughed; my new, pink lungs still had not adjusted to the deep inhalation of a multitude of carcinogens.  I could not blame them. Cymon did not stir, fast asleep.  My snail-brain correlated and sorted the facts. If the Supreme Being wanted me on Hadean, it wasn't for my quick intellect.
	The pattern was overwhelming. A mysterious coin in my feces that allowed me to go to Peitou. A venereal disease spelling Hadean on my tubeworm. The hair test results  - Hadean again. Shaman taking the only flight to Hadean that survived.
	I saw a purpose and it was not of my making. It was clear I hadn't had free will for some timer if ever.
	The weeks dragged on but soon it would be time. One thing about having no free will, or at least the illusion of not having it: you can have a good time. For I was not responsible for my actions. Two quotes ran through my mind, neither from The Bible, although I searched.
	One was Gramp’s creation. I suspected it was more like an inter-related dyslexic sputtering than wisdom, which, once said, became what he meant to say:
	"I'm doing this free of my own will."
	But my personal mantra was a line from an ancient Earthling rock and roll band, The Consumers:
	"With no free will there is no sin."
	As far as I could see -- not far, admittedly -- I had no free will. It was comforting.

CHAPTER 29

	The weeks were a blur; an out-of-focus holovid. A man with no free will is free. The syntactic clutter did not bother me. Nothing did, as nothing was my fault.
	Peitou continued to change rapidly. The roads and skies became more crowded daily; even smogglasses couldn't cut through the haze. The fear came true: infrastructure solidification. Internal security roved the streets, eager to cite passerby’s for minor insubordination. Earthlings were still exempt, but there was repression in the clotted air.
	Soon Earther teachers would have to pay taxes. And need a license. Then teachers, including myself, if I stayed, would enter that great database that monitored every action. Like on Earth.
	Big Phleck, as the locals said -- actually Hukk Phleck -- was spreading its omnipresent, noxious, sucker-laced tentacles in even the far-reaches of the universe.
	I checked my EarthEX balance. It was raised to the second power; beyond the zeros the card could register. The Peitouian stock market had continued its dizzying upward spiral. I was rich, but nervous. I feared the stock market's infrastructure was solidifying like the rest of society and soon stocks would be valued for their worth instead of from blind speculation.
	I had enough credits to live off the interest of my interest. Safety seemed prudent. I didn't want to worry about my money anymore.
	I fished through my jumpsuit and found the card Gosu had given me. It was impressive, sweating of wealth. Both sides were hole, made of soft yet firm silken material. The broker's name leapt from the card, floating above it: Angus Khan. His picture glided just under the name. He had a stern face, short hair, and a white shirt with a tie. An earring, probably diamond, glinted when the card caught the light. I turned it over. The words were backwards, of course, and Angus had a short ponytail. Then his head slowly rotated, as did his name. When his face again faced me, he smiled and looked down. A phone number flashed below him.
	I turned the card over and watched it again. I needed a name card -- I had resisted, despite the fact they were essential for business on Peitou. Trading business cards was a planetary obsession. I decided to get a holocard like Anqus's, whatever the cost.
	I recognized the area code: his office was on Zippon, the financial center of the Brim system. Good. I didn't trust an Earthbound broker since they wouldn't be fully aware of intergalactic investment opportunities.
	I left the dink. There wasn't a holophone and I wanted to see Angus's face live before I turned my fortune over to him. I took a hovertaxi to the Peitou Hilton where there were public holophones.
	Typically, I attempted to bum a deathstick from the cabby. I could afford my own, but liked trying native brands. Unfortunately, the Super-Duper 30026 list threat had worked; Peitou had opened their markets to Earth deathsticks. They were still more expensive than native brands, but prices had come down drastically without import tariffs. But advertising, not price, caused the immense sales. Earth deathstick manufactures had centuries of practice selling a product that would shorten your lifespan considerably. They were good at it. When that skill was combined with the Peitouian desire to use anything that made them feel like an Earthling, the deathstick market was a gimme. The government knew it; that was why they resisted opening it.
	Mule and Mule Lights were far and away the most popular brands. Their holoads were built around hardened Earthling males, space jockeys, who piloted solo spaceships to far-flung mineral-rich asteroids, staking their lonely claims while puffing away on a Mule. Arriving back at home port, the space jockeys were swarmed by groups of lubricated Earthling women who shed their clothing with the first weathered smile.
	Who could resist?
	The cabby only had Mule Lights. I shook my head. He understood Earthling non-verbal language, and offered me a bugnut instead. I took it. Despite my propensity for primes, for reasons only my unconscious knew, I had avoided bugnut. Perhaps it was Gramps's story of instantaneous retching.
	The driver had offered buqnut to Earthlings before. He quickly hit the button to roll down the rear windows. I put the nut in my mouth, careful to chew slowly.
	I pushed groceries, hopefully not on some family on a hoverscooter below us.
	By the time I regained control of my diaphragm's involuntary muscles, we were at the hotel. I tipped the driver for the cleanup costs. I stepped inside the hotel and stood in amazement at the opulence. The lobby was immense; acres. There were many open air restaurants and shops. A live Earthling quartet played forgotten string instruments. In the center stood four glass elevators that zipped up and down like bullets in a electrosun barrel.
	The hotel was filled with Earthlings. They made me uncomfortable. I jogged to the holophones. The doors closed automatically, shutting out all sound. I ran my EarthEX card through the scanner and dialed Angus's number. He was picky about his calls. The LCD asked for access to my balance. I ran my card through again. Before I had finished Angus appeared.
	"Well ... hello, partner," he said, grinning from ear-to-ear. He was genuinely happy to see me. Or my balance. "What can I do for you?"
	"I need an investment broker," I said. "Gosu referred you. "
	"Gosu, huh? A fine ape. We had some good times in school. Nothing I would want to broadcast, you understand. A friend of Gosu is a friend of mine. Or shall we say, a client of Gosu's is a client of mine?" He looked down at his laptop.
	He spoke, one eye on the holophone and one on the computer. "What can I help you with, partner?"
	I knew he was trying to calculate my net worth. Probably not good at exponents.
	"I would like to switch to a guaranteed investment," I said. "I realize the rate of return will be low, but I want no worries."
	"Don't blame you, partner," he replied. "Don't blame you at all. Having all your equity in the Peitouian market?" He shuddered. "Keep even the Supreme Being awake at night, I suspect. Not risk-adverse are you, partner?
	He didn't expect an answer. "But one extreme is as bad as the other," he said. "Heaven's as bad as Hell, if you're stuck there, ain't it? I would suggest diversification. A smidgen of high risk, some low, and lots in the middle."
	"No," I replied. "I want it all in a guaranteed investment."
	"Ain't nothing guaranteed in this strange and wonderful life we nickname home, partner. Many intangibles in an infinite universe."
	"I want an Earth-based guaranteed investment," I said. "Backed by the full faith of Earth's economy. Aren't Earth money market funds secure? I don't care about the interest rate. Just something safe."
	"I repeat myself, partner," Gosu said. "Nothing is guaranteed in a universe made of quantum foam. First lesson in business school. Anything can happen. And will, sometimes. Surer an Earth money market fund is a good bet. But you need diversification, just in case. The only sure thing in life is death, partner, and even that is open to debate."
	Supreme Being. All I wanted to do was invest my money in Earth. "What could happen?" I said. "Earth still controls intergalactic trade."
	"For now, partner. For now. Things are-a-changing. Oh, it's a safe investment. But all your wealth? Everything? You know what they say: don't put all your flavors in the same hadron."
	"Not forever," I said. "Just a year or so. Are you telling me Earth will lose economic dominance in a year?"
	"I ain't telling you nothing, partner. Just giving suggestions. If you knew investments, you would know that Earth is passing through a debris-filled corner of the Milky Way. There is a chance that the planet could be wiped clean of lifeforms by a large rock. It's happened before, partner. Several times. Reek havoc with the markets this time, though. Last time only dinosaurs had to worry." He scratched his chin. "Maybe some flowering plants."
	"Look," I said. "That's what I want. Maybe I should go to a discount broker."
	"But you're right," Angus said. "Earth is the most secure investment in the cosmos. For now. And I am your broker, not your father. If that's want you want, that's what I'11 do. You sure, partner?"
	"I'm sure," I said. I did not want to worry about my money anymore; I had a more important concern: Hadean. Besides, despite the low interest rate I conservatively projected I soon could buy the Earth moon. Not that I wanted it. It had been mined to its core.
	What did you expect, being so close to Earth?

CHAPTER 30

	Hadean called; the signal strengthened every day. Beep, beEP, BEEP. There was no tuning it out. No overt displays had presented themselves of late, but a neural channel had been carved that caused the mystery to reverberate in my brain. The seed had been planted and it festered like bhang in SouthBloc.
	Bhang grew well in SouthBloc, by the way.
	Supposedly Shaman had made it to Hadean. I wondered if his venereal disease was still giving investment advice.
	Yet another reason to go. My broker was of little help.
	Another month passed. Zip, zing. I dreamed Hadean, ate Hadean, defecated Hadean. My brain was capable of no other thought, now that my fortune was safely tucked away. I quit my job. Everyone should; it is a wonderful, liberating feeling. Nothing beats the first time you forsake guaranteed income and security, except perhaps the second time. Or the third. Probably the fourth, too, but that would have to wait.
	I tried to book a ticket to Hadean, but found there was no such thing. Since only one ship, and nobody knew for sure, had made it, remaining flights had been canceled with the outrageous insurance costs. No communication had been received from Shaman's ship; the only thing known was that no sudden increase of stellar fuel appeared around Hadean. That the ship still existed was actually an assumption.
	To an erect, bipedal, rich, possibly cognizant ape, solutions came as easy as a blink of an eye. With a retina print I bought a ship, a crew, and enough barley pop for the journey. It took half my net worth but, as the saying went, let the good times fester.
	Fungus pop was cheaper, but I would be far from harvestclones.
	Lacking a reference on my wrist, I bought a cyberwatch. Cybe, in current slang. A top of the line model; one only extremely wealthy could afford. It told time, in ten thousand time zones, translated all known languages, had a memory capable of holding Earth literature to the Blee era when information exploded like a supernova, could calculate pi to a billion places (a exponential improvement over my last watch) could plot planet trajectories and gravitational pulls for solar sailors, and even indicate allotted scuba-diving times in various fluids, from hydrogen to H20 to mercury.
	Honestly: it looked like the latest model. Actually, it was, as the dark, hidden, back-alley merchants called it, a "copycybe." It lacked higher functions, but I wasn't planning to plot landing trajectories, nor was I thinking of going scuba diving in liquid metals. And I had never felt the urge to calculate pi even to four places.
	I expected to have free time on my trip, so I hired a local programmer to input Earth literature in the cybe in case I got bored enough to access it.
	"Adventure," I said. No response from the watch.
	Should have had a thesaurus programmed, too.  "Journey. "
	The cybe hummed. I pressed for vocal output. In Earther.
	"...The younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living..."
	Good one.   "Source?" I asked.
	"St. Luke," the watch said. "Thirteen..."
	"St. Luke?" I asked.
	"The Bible," the cybe said.
	Another good Bible quote. Perhaps infrequent, but again relevant.
	My cybe beeped. I looked at the screen. My retina scan had cleared; the ship and accessories were officially mine.
	Good thing, too. I checked my balance twenty minutes later and it was zero.

CHAPTER 31

I scanned my EarthEX again. Must be a computer error. Strangely, the screen showed my payment for the ship had cleared before the balance went to zero. I turned the card over. The holobar that contained the account data was intact. But obviously there was a malfunction. Likely I had used the card to cut loids too many times and the chemicals had eaten away at the holobar.
	That didn't make sense. From my MBA, I knew that long ago credit card companies had switched from magnetic strips because holobars were more durable and that even if ninety-nine percent of the bar was destroyed all data could be gleaned from what remained.
	Loids had been hot and heavy, though. The busy little bees of Peitouian industry had created a new designer, made for Earthling receptor sites. It was for export but there was plenty around. The new illegal domestic product had wiped Sonic, the illegal Earth import, off the market. It was cheaper: no smuggling expenses built into variable costs. As drug dealing, Peitouian businesspeople had little regard for laws if they interfered with profit.
	They were learning quickly.
	Typically, the Peitouians had chosen an Earth word for their product that didn't make sense: Hollow.
	Then again, maybe it did.
	I also recalled one of the few images my brain had implanted from the fryfish party. I had swam in the acidic Mongkut ocean when trying to corral the fryfish. Perhaps the water had eaten away at the holobar.
	Why it would take so long to corrode my card? I wasn't worried, but decided to go downstairs and buy some barley pop to see what 7-11's scanner said. In the last couple of months, credit cards, and especially EarthEX, had grown to be accepted everywhere. They spread with Earther. Part of the infrastructure, you know.
	Even after financing my expedition to Hadean, I had a billion of credits to spare. More than enough for a six-pack, even on Peitou. I grabbed a generic brand, known appropriately as "Barley Pop." Although my wealth had many zeros, it didn't hurt to save a credit here and there. I was just going to filter the liquid, extract its nutrients and fermented byproducts, add my body's chemical waste to what was left, then piss it out.
	Now there was a skill I was proficient at.
	I gave my card to the clerk. He ran it through the scanner and gave it back. I gave it to him again. He didn't speak Earther -- minimum wage employees seemed the last to learn. Perhaps they couldn't afford the outrageous fees those exploiting Earther teachers charged? Instead of trying to explain, I pointed. Pointing was an Intergalactically understood motion. He tried again, with the same result.
	I had enough to buy the beer but that was it. All my credits were tied to my card. While I needed the beer, I used my change to take a hovertaxi to the Hilton.
	The driver grumbled when I was a few credits short of the fare, but accepted a couple of deathsticks instead. I went to the holophones.
	I ran my card through the phone's scanner; nothing. I was forced to call collect. I gave the receptionist Angus's direct access code; she put me on hold. I sat back. Hold on holophones included pictures. Angus had chosen a holovid of Earth's current hot band, the Palindromes, playing their  intergalactic, "Waht did I ... I did thaw?" It had been number one on the charts for a record four days.
	The song was about an eighteenth century explorer found in a remaining portion of an Earth icecap who lived a month or so after they brought him -- better to say his mind -from wherever it had been. From frozen tissue, I suspect. In any case, the band's spelling could be forgiven. The pronunciation was close. I knew from Earth Today that the band maintained the song's title was a phonetically correct spelling of the iceman's first words, but I suspect there were times the band regretted the name they had chosen.
	The holovid began with an introduction. "Radar on vocals, Bob on lead guitar, Racecar on bass, Kayak on drums. .."
	Angus interrupted.
	"I was tempted not to accept your call, partner," he said, distracted by something I couldn't see. "As I have an very important business matter to take care of." His tie was crooked and I heard a giggle off screen. "But then I remembered the commission from your transaction, partner, and my heart said be charitable, be charitable. You are a human, after all. A surviving genetic relative. In-law, probably." He laughed, then wiped his nose. "What do you want? Sympathy?" He could barely spit it out; something amused him greatly. "A ticket back to Earth?" He laughed so hard it drooled onto his desk.
	"Hello," I said.
	"Hello, yourself. He looked at his cybe. "Time is money; money is time. All part of the same Moneytime Continuum."
	"Who said that?" I asked.
	"Einstein, of course," he replied.
	"No, he didn't..."
	"Whatever," Angus said, straightening his tie. "He's dead. Updated for modern times, partner."
	I didn't like Angus's tone. I didn't need him. Supreme Being, I could make my own investment decisions. Might as well switch to a computerized discount broker if the service I was getting. Angus was lucky to have my account. And a computer wouldn't call me "partner."
	The reason I had called -- my zero balance -- was washed from my mind by a cloudburst of testosterone. Not a thinking man's hormone.
	"You better watch yourself, monkey sperm," I threatened. "Or your biggest account will disappear as surely as the whales did. Big-brains and all."
	"Monkey sperm?" Angus laughed. "New Earther slang?"
	"Yes," I lied.
	"Hmmm. Good. I like it. Whales? Big brains are an evolutionary dead-end, you know. Ask the dominant big-brained land species ... the one that killed the whales." Angus laughed uncontrollably. I sensed loid -Hollow in his eyes. Likely the Peitouian dealers were test marketing the product regionally; Zippon was closer many Earthlings lived there, and it was the gateway to Earth. No slouches, those Peitouians. Good marketing skills.
	"Biggest account?" Angus chuckled. "Oh, then excuse me..." He squinted at the holophone. "I didn't recognize your image, oh King of Jungo, Lord of poverty stricken, starving, oppressed masses. You look so white ... Christ, like an Earthling ... on the holophone." Tears cascaded down his cheeks.
	Impressive. "King of Jungo? You manage his portfolio?"
	"Yes, I do," Angus said, pulling himself together. "What can I do for you, partner? I'm very busy, you know. Look. If you want enough credits to get off Peitou, I'11 give you a loan. At ridiculously high interest rates, of course. I sympathize; an Earthling stranded in the cosmos. A rare commodity. My heart bleeds with generosity. We do come from the same mutant prokaryote.  Far, far back in time, but somewhere we are connected.   So I'11 give you a loan. If you don't pay it back, I'11 hire Gosu to sue you! If he's still around..." Angus lost control again; his tear ducts spit fluid he was laughing so hard.
	I was pissed off, unable to understand the joke which apparently centered on me.
	"Do you know who you are speaking with?" I said.
	"Of courser partner," Angus said. "I remember you. How could I forget? The amazingly stupid and lucky zillionaire Earther teacher who foolishly invested his entire portfolio in Earth-backed investments."
	"But you told me to."
	"No, I didn't," Angus said. He reached out and tapped the holophone with his knuckles. I flinched instinctively. "Too many primes, bro?" he said. "Death to the memory cells?  I said Earth investments were the most secure in the cosmos.   Diversification is what I recommended. Diversification, diversification. Spark some burnt-out neuron? In any case, I am just a counselor, not your mother waiting to wipe your anus when need be. Forget the loan."
	"Fuck you," I replied. Yes, it had a nice ring. Much better than futhark, with its two syllables.
	"What do you mean foolishly invested my credits? I asked. "You said Earth was a safe investment."
	"A good choice of past tense," Angus said.
	"Hello," I said. "Speaka Earther?"
	"'Was' is past tense."
	I tried to think, but couldn't. My subconscious was formulating a theory it understood, but which was blocked by higher cognitive thought. I suspected I didn't want it to float upward anyway; there was a reason it hadn't. And I didn't want to know why.
	Angus cleared his throat impatiently, then realization spread across his well-maintained face.
	"You don't know, partner, do you?" He checked his cybe. "Of course. Zippon has subspace links to Earth; no time delay. Zippon broadcasts to Peitou with radio waves It hasn't hit the papers there yet...."

CHAPTER 32

	Angus looked at me with what appeared to be real sympathy. "Partner," he said. "Today Earth was wiped clean of lifeforms by a gigantic rock that had been meandering aimlessly through the cosmos since the beginning of time." "What?" I replied.
	Angus' voice took on a high-pitched sarcastic tone. "Partner," he said. "Today Earth was wiped clean of lifeforms today by a gigantic rock that has been meandering aimlessly through the cosmos since the beginning of time. Christ, for an Earther teacher you don't understand the language very well."
	"What?" I again replied. News to me.
	"Well, not completely clean," he said. "Just larger things, like mammals. Well, they're not all dead yet, but the particulates covering the planet will surely wipe out those who remain. No sunlight, you know. Nasty on the plants. Basis of the food chain and all that."
	"A mass extinction...?" I managed to sputter. My EarthEX balance was making sense.
	"I wouldn't call it that," Angus said. "Not many species left, besides man and domesticated animals. Surely the smallest mass extinction in Earth history. Nothing like the K-T or even that amphibian one. Those were biggies."
	I was shocked and forgot my monetary loss. "But there must be millions -- billions, of humans still alive," I said. "It will take weeks, months, before the food supply is exhausted. Aren't the Brim planets organizing a relief effort to save those who survive?"
	Angus laughed coherently. The Hollow had been processed into non-simulative substances by his system.
	"Excuse me?" he said. "Why should they? There are trillions of tons of valuable resources on Earth. It was a wealthy planet. Metals, oil, diamonds, pornographic holovids. All much more profitable without Earthlings demanding a commission. The markets will initially reflect Earth's destruction. For an hour or so, I suspect. But this opening of the wealth of riches will cause a sustained bull market. That's my analysis. Technicians will you a different answer, but even they'll admit it's off the charts."
	My mouth opened -- to speak what my vocal circuits wanted to say. But for once, cognitive processes overrode the unthinking flip-flap.
     This is what I was going to say: "What about human compassion?"
	What a laugher.
	If Earthlings had taught one lesson to the cosmos, it was the exploitation of their own planet created their wealth; that lifeforms that couldn't defend themselves meant nothing if they stood in the way of profit. And if Earthlings couldn't defend themselves from a rock that had been blindly following a course set since the beginning of the universe, well then, fuck them.
	Excuse my Earther.
	What goes around comes around. If Earthlings had shown any respect for their fellow lifeforms: the whooping cranes, the white rhino, the bonytail chub, they would have taught the residents of the Brim system that lifeforms had some value. Maybe if Earthlings had saved even one of their own bloodline -- the primates. But they hadn't.
	The Brimmers took profit-making, capitalism, at its face-value -- analyzing exactly how the Earth had succeeded. No matter if the destruction of other species could have been avoided. To the Brimmers it was just another part of the equation to follow.
	If a species did not contribute to the profit side of the equation, it did not matter. Like Earthlings.
	But it made no sense. Earth technology would have detected such an asteroid long ago.
	I decided to pose the question to my apparent ex-broker.
	"Why didn't Earth scanners pick up the asteroid?"
	"The current administration didn't want to panic the markets. Global recession, election year. They thought they could divert the rock with thermonuclear missiles left over from PreBloc days. They were wrong of course, but with an election year it is understandable. I would have done the same. But then again, I am on Zippon, eh, partner?"
	I could see Angus was checking his computer. Then surprisingly he bowed, a form of Zipponian apology.
	"Excuse me, sir," he said, face pointed to the floor. "I humbly apologize. Please understand that I am a businessperson and thus are required to follow informal rules that dictate my behavior." He bowed again. "I plead you forgiveness, client of mine."
	Much better, I thought, forgetting Earth was gone. I switched the holophone booth to opaque and unzipped my jumpsuit to its limits. I pressed the right half of my gluteus maximus to the screen. It was difficult in the cramped space but I managed.
	"Kiss my ass," I said, meaning every word.
	To his credit, Angus did not hesitate. A true businessperson. I was tempted to wipe the slobber from the holophone but knew it was really on the other end. I didn't understand what I had done to change his mind, but didn't care as I watched him wipe his screen.
	He looked up. "I see that you withdrew half of your net worth before the extinction. Well, not extinction. There are plenty of humans left throughout the universe to spread the seed. Like me. And your my dearest friend. I know how hard this mass extermination of your -- and I remind you ... my species must hurt your heart." Angus busily returned to his computer as he spoke.
	He looked up. "A brilliant move. Selling half your Earth investments shortly before they were wiped out. That leaves you with a billion credits. Hopefully you put it back into Peitou's stock market. It has growth tenfold because the planet retains a branch of Earth's patent office, which they have planetized."
	Thoughts drifted. All gone. The Tree in Central Park, Gosu, ex-contract spouses, spivs, suits, the Grand Canyon.  Well, the Grand Canyon was probably OK.
	Angus cleared his throat. "I know an excellent investment.. ."
	The shock that everybody on Earth was dead or would be soon put me in a reflective mood. I forgot what a buttslime Angus was. Good word, buttslime. I hope my students spread it throughout the universe. And they would never know that I made it up, that it wasn't true Earther slang.
	The thought hit me: I could ask for another raise if I made it back to Peitou.
	"And do not forget, dear friend," Angus said, "Earthlings that survive -- away from Earth, of course -have suddenly become very valuable. Like you and me, bro."
	He was right. Being the articulate ape, I responded. "Hmmm. "
	"I know an incredible investment," he said. "Only comes once every twenty six million years. Approximately."      
	"What is it?"
	"Limited partnerships to exploit Earth's riches once the remaining humans are dead. Won't be long -- maybe six months. Oh, some will unfortunately survive. Probably my mother-in-law. But she won't have much of a bargaining chip, will she? A hamburger will probably get you EuroBloc. "Fucking slimer" I said. "Don't you care?"
	"About what? This is a wonderful profit opportunity. Best I've seen. As your investment counselor, I recommend you invest. A sure bet. Not like those risky Earth money market accounts. I can get you in on the ground floor if you act now. The upside potential is enormous."
	"Invest in Earth? Didn't you tell me that Earth money market accounts were safe?"
	"What am II the Supreme Being? Oh yes, investment counselors are supposed to plot the trajectories of rocks floating through the galaxy. Sorry, sluffed that quarter. Do want in?"
	"No. I spent my money on a spaceship. I'm going to Hadean."
	"A spaceship? To Hadean? I take back my politeness.  I'11 get even for the ass thing. Good-bye."
	Click.
	There was no going back. Earth as I knew it was gone. It seemed I was destined to see Shaman again. If he had survived.
	There was a brief thought of selling the ship at a loss so I would be worth something. But the flow prevailed. Hadean was out there. Shaman was out there. I knew it to be the truth.
	Amen.

CHAPTER 33

	I arrived at the spaceport gasping for life. I was out of shape but it was the physical exertion in the Peitouian atmosphere that did me in. The air was considered a carcinogen by the health authorities, and it had been a several kilometer walk. No taxi money.
	I lit a deathstick to catch my breath.
	I made my way through the public terminal, heading to the private one. "Private" had a nice ring; of wealth and privilege. I imagined myself having a "cocktail" -- as the wealthy called mixed inter -- with owners of luxury yachts, discussing various issues that well-to-do people talked about. Investment yields, exciting ports, fine liquors.
	I was guessing at the conversational bases. Despite the fact I had been richer than many of those pompous exploiters of the masses, I hadn't shifted my lifestyle to
reflect it. Good thing too or I would be in for a period of massive readjustment. As Angus had said: past tense. No longer wasn't I wealthy, but my credits could be summed up with a single digit: 0.
	But I did own a lot of beer. And a spaceship. Yachts, as pleasure cruisers were known. The thought hit me. If I survived Hadean, I was free to come and go as I pleased. To anywhere, as long as I could afford fuel and pilots. And if I learned to fly I only needed fuel and a co-pilot. A trader, ferrying cargo from planet to planet. Perhaps even illegal substances, a much higher return.
	Be my own boss. An entrepreneur. No. A pirate. Ho ho ho and a tube of intox.
	I would need a co-pilot I could trust, though.
	I stopped my brain. "After Hadean" was a big jump. One thing about human brains -- perhaps the reasons they overtook the universe (for a while) was that they were capable of imagining impossible happenings, projections that stood no chance, plans for events that couldn't occur.
	Like returning from Hadean.
	The main lobby of the spaceport was filled with a diversity of lifeforms. The walk to the private terminal took me past the main arrival and departure gates, where species separated into homogeneous groups. I passed by the Zippon gate, the Mongkut gate, the Jungo gate, all with their respective species. I found a large crowd of humans milling about at the Earth gate.
	They looked depressed.
	I kept going. No reason to rehash the dead planet thing.
	There was heavy security at the private spaceport. It took a while to prove I owned a ship, but I finally did. I suspected the delay revolved around my appearance. My ship was at gate thirteen, a short walk.
	There she was. I hadn't named her; the thought hadn't crossed my mind. She was beautiful, gleaming despite the lack of sunlight. No expense was wasted; I assumed I wasn't coming back and that if I did, I would still be rich. Hyperdrive, autopilot, hot tub, holovid library. Everything a man needed except an occasional female. I had considered that too, but dismissed it. There was only so much room and uncountable cases of barley pop took up a lot of space. Besides, I had some good holovids.
	While I was admiring my ship, a portly Earthling rambled up next to me.
	"Yours?" he asked.
	"Yep . "
	Despite my appearance, dressed in an Earth prison outfit, he accepted me as an equal. I suspected there were many eccentric super-rich and I was just the tip of the iceberg. The wealthy aren't prejudiced, if you meet their criteria: to have tons of money. Between my ship and my expensive looking but fake cyberwatch, I met the criteria. "What's her name?" he asked.
	I had to think fast; free association test. I looked at him. "Remnant."
	He chuckled. "Fitting with the Earth thing."
	"Yes," I replied. "I guess so. Hadn't thought of that."
	It struck me: these were people without a planet, even before Earth went boom. Wealth had broken the chains; their home was where the rich had decided to be this week. They were Earthlings, but considered the universe theirs, to come and go as they pleased.
	"A shame," he said.   "I can't say it was a beautiful planet, but it was home.   Went twice a year. Lost some friends but you always do."
	"Any Earth investments?" I asked.
	He smiled. "A few. But I expect to more than recoup my losses through an aggressive Zipponian Earth fund that will bring astronomical returns. You know of it?"
     "Yes." I knew of it but didn't have any credits to invest. All my wealth sat gleaming on the tarmac.
	"You in?" he asked.
	"No. "
	"Why not? It's a sure bet."
	"I don't feel right about an investment that profits from the plunder of my own planet."
	He was taken aback for a moment, then smiled. "Ah, the nouveau riche. Refreshing. So full of morals...
	"You'll learn," he continued.   "Or lose your money. Earth was destroyed, yes. So what?  Planet die every day. This one just had humans on it. So what? Humans die everyday, too."
	"It doesn't seem right..."
	"Did you destroy the planet?" he asked, then answered himself. "No. It was out of your hands. So why not make some money? If you don't, somebody else will. Earth is gone. But there's a silver lining in every cloud."
	"Perhaps gold," I replied, not knowing what he meant but recognizing the valuable metal in his sentence.
	He laughed and laughed. "Perhaps gold. Good one. Never thought off that. A gold lining. Gold has historically been the more valuable of the two." He stroked his chin in thought. "A gold lining! Good one." He decided it was OK to slap me on the back, and did.
	It was a chummy move and I smiled in return.
	"You're quite the wit," he said. "I can always use a good chuckle."  He gave me his card. It was a nice holo, like Angus's.   "DALO FAITHFUL. RICH EARTHLING."
	"Thank you, Dalo," I said.
	"Feel free to stop by any time. The phone number will give you my current whereabouts."
	"Cocktails on you?"  I asked.
	"Of course, my boy.  Of course. Always."
	Sounded like a friend.
	"So what's the gold lining in Earth's destruction?" I asked. "Beside the profit potential."
	"No taxes," Dale said.
	I hadn't given it a thought. Intergalactic treaties said income tax was paid to the planet of your birth, no matter where you lived and how far away from home you were. No home planet, no taxes.
	The rich got richer. The poor were dead.
	I remembered that I had to get to Remnant before my crew saw the news of Earth's destruction.
	"Nice meeting your Dale," I said. "But I have to run."  I looked at my cybe. "Must be on Jungo by nightfall."
	"And then?" he asked.
	No reason to lie. "Hadean."
	“Hadean? I didn't realize that they had a Hilton."
	"They don't, to my knowledge."
	He slapped me on the back again.   "Quite the adventurer. Let me knows how it goes.  The wife could use a new solar system. Brim shopping has become boring, I'm afraid. Dreadfully sick of fungus products. Have fun and stay in touch."
	"I will," I replied.
	Even the slaves felt rich on Peitou. It was all relative. Like the universe, I'm told.	Like most white-collar Peitouians, my pilot and copilot spoke good Earther. I hadn't told them our real destination. They thought I was smuggling illicit substances. I know because that's what I told them. If I told the truth I would never get to Hadean. So I didn't. Easy enough, until we got to Jungo.
	The Mongkut was the domestic help. He did not speak Earther well, but enough to fetch a beer. I suspected by the time we got to Hadean -- if we did -- his language skills would improve greatly. It was a long trip.
	Hadean was beyond the known universe. That's not true of courser but it sounded dramatic. What it was beyond were charted wormholes to jump through. We could access a hole near Jungo, but it would only take us 99.99 percent of the journey. The remaining .01 percent would have to be flown using our ramjet, taking six months.
	A long time considering the two Peitouians were already on my nerves, ten minutes to take off. They sat in the cockpit, chomping on some disgusting snackfood -- marinated beaks of some birdlike creature. They didn't actually eat the beak, but the creature's tongue. Which took strong jaws and some skill. Each Peitouian had two dozen, and when they sucked one clean they tossed the remnants to the floor.
	The tremendous noise they produced nauseated me. Slurp, phlem, chomp, crack. The only Peitouians I had eaten with were my clients, but I knew excessive noise with food consumption was a status symbol. Peitouians loved their food and the rituals surrounding eating were important. There were organized contests to see who could generate the most decibels during dinner.
	No doubt my pilot was planetary champion. Hukqer, as close as I could translate -- pretend you are going to spit after clearing your throat and then push whatever you've come up with back down, forcefully, and you'll be close to the correct pronunciation -- pulled a beak from his mouth and added it to the collection near his feet.
	Politely he sucked in his nose when he saw me standing in the doorway with my first barley pop of the trip in hand.
	"Hello," I said.
	Hukqer and the copilot bowed. "Hello, Captain," they said in unison.
	Captain! Howdy doody!
	"Have you heard today's news?" I asked.
	"No," Hukqer relied. "We too busy checking ship. Very beautiful, Captain."
	My luck was holding.  Well, except for the Earth thing.
	"Why?" Hukqer asked.  "Something happen?"
	I casually sipped my beer. "What?"
	"Why ask if heard news? Something happen?"
	"Oh, no." Then I said the wrong thing. "Just wondering how the market was doing."
	Playing the market was an Peitouian obsession. And Hukqer and the copilot hadn't heard any news since last night; their curiosity would be awakened by my comment.
	Hukqer reached to the dash and turned on a radio, which blared away in Peitouian. I picked up a word here and there, but not enough to understand. It was exciting Hukqer and the copilot.
	I stepped into the cockpit, scattering the piles of beaks, and turned off the radio.
	Hukqer gave me a questioning glint, then reached to turn the radio back on. I grabbed his arm.
	"No radio," I said.
	"Why? "
	"Because I say. Because I am the Captain."
	That pissed them off. They broke into Peitouian; hooting and flinging mucus and spittle to the already slimy beaks on the floor. They were speaking too fast for me to recognize much, but I knew what they were saying. Joke was on them; my mother died long ago, and without internal security boots.
	The copilot -- I'm not even going to try to translate his name -- calmed down enough to regain his Earther skills.
	"Why?" he asked. "News very important."
	"What did it say?" I asked. Just what I needed; my pilots finding out Earth was destroyed.
	"It say Peitou market tripled since morning. We want know how investments doing. You understand, rich Earthling. Investments, making credits, are purpose for existence, are not? We learned from Earthlings. We curious why market grow so fast. Perhaps can shift investments to advantage."
	The market had tripled? Supreme Being, if I hadn't invested in that fucked Earth planet I would have been in double digit exponents on my EarthEX card.
	Hukqer and the copilot wanted to listen to the business news to see how their investments were doing -- no doubt funded in large part by my astronomical salary advances. I couldn't allow it; there would be news of Earth. It wouldn't take long to correlate the fact I was an Earthling and question my net worth.
	I knew why the market was seeing exponential growth. No more Earth competition. And the Brim system branch of Earth's patent office was on Peitou.
	"No," I said.
	The pair broke into Peitouian again, and I stepped back as their rage flung still more mucus on the floor. Still, my orange jumpsuit caught some weightier globs.
	I watched with a smile as the slime slid off my suit.  I couldn't wait to show Shaman.
	This time Hukqer spoke.
	"Why?"
	"Because I am Captain. And need I remind you that technically you have not earned your advance, since we have not reached our destination. I can take it back. And by Peitouian law, any investment income it has earned will also be mine. Am I correct?"
	That shut them up.
	"What we doing?" the copilot asked. "Smuggle Hollow to Jungo?"
	"Something like that," I replied. "I am afraid that internal security may be monitoring our radio reception." It was a lie.  But then again, one man's lie was another man's truth.   And having said it, I almost believed it.
	"Is impossible," Hukqer said. "Cannot monitor radio reception, only transmission."
	"It is an Earth technology not yet introduced to Peitou," I said, nonchalantly sipping my barley pop. I was on a roll. "But my sources tell me that the technology has been given to Peitou's drug enforcement agencies."
	Lying wasn't something I cultivated but it came easy enough when I tried. Truth from another perspective.
	They weren't sure if I was lying. Rumors abounded on Peitou about wondrous Earth technology waiting in the wings. Nowhere was this more true than in the military sector, where incredible technology was actually waiting in the wings. Was: past tense. Creating weapons of death was another of Mankind's many skills. I knew from my pilots' resumes that both had received their flight training in the military, so would know of such things.
	In reality, there would be no innovations from Earth for a while.
	I stepped forward, slipping on the slimy floor. "Is the radio necessary for our flight?"
	"No." Hukqer pointed to another. "This for flight. Other for investment news."
	"Is it sensitive to liquids?" I asked.
	"Of course," he replied.
	I shook my half-full bottle, thumb over the top. I waded through the slime on the floor -- Supreme Being, what would it look like in six months? -- and released my thumb inches from the radio. As I had hoped, the physical laws that regulated the reaction of dissolved carbon dioxide when agitated in a closed space held valid.
	Liquid covered the radio. A nice shade of blue smoke was emitted.
	The three of us were silent, watching the tiny pastel mushroom cloud form as sparks jumped to the floor. Most were quickly extinguished by the slime. A large one landed on my jumpsuit; it unsuccessfully attempted to ignite the material. The suit was fireproof, a precaution against suicide attempts from prisoners. A good feature for deathstick smokers.
	The two Peitouians did not have such flame retarding material at their disposal and slapped at their crotches.
	There was a swig of beer left. I raised the bottle to my lips. Uggh. All foam.
	"Any other damage?" I asked, quickly withdrawing from the cockpit.
	The pair broke into an admirable rage. Despite my distance, I was pelted several times by flying phlem. I couldn't imagine a heated political debate. The audience must wear raincoats.
	I shut the door. The copilot broke into Earther.  "Monkey Sperm,” he said.
	I felt proud. Little hope the phrase would spread to Earth, though. Unless cockroaches evolved quickly.

CHAPTER 35

	It took a minute for Hukqer to realize the authorities only had to look out the window to locate us, Whether the radio was on or off. Not there was a chance the radio would be on.
	Never underestimate lies and threats: they work, especially if you are twice as tall as your targets. We took off on schedule. I heard Hukqer and the copilot flinging phlem, but they obeyed. It was a short flight to Jungo, about four Peitouian hours.
	I walked to the lounge and sat down next to the Mongkut. We couldn't carry on much of a conversation beyond "How are you" so I offered him a barley pop. Long again I had learned inter was the universal translator, even if only I was drinking. He smiled what I assumed was a smile, although his second mouth remained impassive.
	I always had problems with the supposedly twist-off caps, but the Mongkut placed a large sucker from his dominant tentacle over the top of the bottle and removed the cap effortlessly. I had wondered if tentacles were an evolutionary disadvantage compared to opposable digits. Obviously, they were not.
	I didn't expect him to drink it. Mongkuts did not like inter. Offering one just seemed the cordial thing to do.
	He -- I knew it was male, with his loincloth and lack of breasts -- poured the beer down his passive mouth, draining the bottle without flinching. I smiled and gave him another.
	"What is your name?" I asked.
	"Mmmph," he answered as he drank.
	"Mmmph?"
	He looked at me strangely. "What mmmph?"
	"Your name? Mmmph?"
	"No." He laughed, draining the bottle. That made two. He drank like a peer group member. Which was good and fine, but my barley pop stock was finite. A case a day times six months. For one person. I wasn't going to let the pilots drink as they steered us through the debris-filled cosmos. And Mongkuts didn't drink; something about their metabolism.
	Except this one, apparently.
	It occurred to me that likely I possessed the largest stock of Earth beer in the Brim system, sure to rise in value dramatically. Peitouians would treasure it because of its scarcity. Besides the beer and ship I didn't have a credit to my name.
	I could not sell Remnant. But the beer?
	There was only one decision, from a moral perspective: Drink. I took two beers from the rack.
	I struggled with mine. The Mongkut reached over and opened it with a quick slurp of a suction cup.
	"What you say?" he asked. "My Earther no good."
	Sounded fine to me. Of course, I was an Earther teacher. "What is name?" I asked.
	Both mouths smiled as he drained the beer. Supreme Being. Suddenly, my greatest fear emerged. A six-month space journey with no cryogenic facilities, albeit a hot tub? My planet destroyed, my investments wiped out? Stuck in a closet with Shaman? Taking a trip to a planet from which no one had returned?
	No.
	"Manchild," the Mongkut said.
	"What?" I said, my brain attempting to burn neural routes in its left hemisphere, an impossible task Twenty-four beers in an Earth case. A Peitouian month was...
	"My name Manchild," he said.
	Impossible. "Where name from?" I said.
	"From male parent. Is not custom on Earth to take..."  He paused. "Father's name?"
	"Usually. "
	"Really? I thought rule. Actually, full name Manchild Fourteen. Go by Manchild on Peitou. No other Manchilds. All other Manchilds at home, so no problem."
	His consumption patterns were familiar. A dominant gene? And he did have an Earther glint to him, despite his phenotypic appearance of a bipedal cephalopod. I recalled the quick evolutionary pace of Mongkut. It would require species to mature to reproductive age quickly.
	"I know your father. My best friend. Earthling."
	Both Manchild Fourteen's mouths smiled. "I know."
	"HOW?"
	"Father sent me. "His..." He stumbled for words but failed. He reached into his loincloth, and whipped out his reproductive organ. "...told him about your journey."
	Obviously other genes of Manchild's remained dominant. The colorization was wrong, green instead of pink, but the size was correct.
	A big Hmmm. The shock of seeing my friend Manchild's penis green -- his son's actually -- was ranked. But that Manchild had the same venereal disease and it also communicated to him?
	Truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction can only be imagined.
	Manchild Fourteen put his organ back and downed another beer. I handed him another. The first case would be gone soon.
	He must have seen my worried glance at the beer rack.  "Surprise for Earthling friend of father,” he said.
	"What?”
	"Instructions from father to double numbers of beers." I relaxed. Good old Manchild. Manchild One, I guess. The language barrier fell rapidly. I couldn't tell if Manchild Fourteen's Earther was improving or if I was primed. I had formulated a theory with my intergalactic travels: inter was a telepathic multiplier.
	Either that or drunks spoke the same language.
	My thoughts ran to Manchild Fourteen's mother. Grandpa said that the disease that was fatal to Mongkuts.
	"Is female parent OK?"
	"Mother? She is fine, as are all father's mates," he said. "The venereal disease used to be fatal to Mongkuts. But we have evolved where it currently is not. Right now we do not know if the situation will stay constant. Mongkuts are such fun-loving people."
	I remember that much from my vacation to Mongkut.
	"We are also trying a new strategy. We have explained to the virus that it can spread much quicker if it allows the host to survive and copulate with as many companions as possible. As part of the deal, we have agreed to spread it to offplaneters. It wants to colonize the universe, you see. It is a fair deal; a symbiosis has been reached. Quite a reasonable virus, actually. As viruses go.
	I felt guilty. I had killed mine. There were few Earthlings left to infect.
	As I suspect the Supreme Being would say: Oh, well.
	My ability to communicate with Manchild Fourteen was amazing. I decided to make sure we were both primed the entire journey.
	As a result, I'm not sure how we got there. When our Peitouian pilots found out our true destination they refused to enter the wormhole. My threats of confiscation of their advances and its investment earnings did no good. Wealth was important but not compared to being alive. Also, during the flight to Jungo they had asked the control tower for investment news and were told of Earth. Hukqer and the copilot correctly summarized that I had no wealth beyond the value of the ship and the final installment of their wages was a very nebulous thing. If we returned.
	Which was unlikely.
	I told them if they set the autopilot I would let them keep half their advance, not including investment earnings. They said it was impossible, that the error ratio after emerging from a wormhole was enormous, but did their best. I was willing to try to fly myself, except that I didn't want to enter the cockpit which was knee deep with Supreme Being knows what by now.
	Whatever grew on top of four hours of Peitouian snack food, I suppose.

CHAPTER 36

	We landed on Jungo. I disembarked with Hukqer and the copilot whose name I could not produce enough phlem to pronounce. Perhaps before the lung transplant; now they were pinky clean, free from mucus. I left Manchild Fourteen in charge of Remnant.
	Pink lungs, that was I. A subthought burrowed to the surface where it lost its prefix.
	Clones. The prefix surfaced: harvestclones.
	Did they make it to Peitou? The ones on Earth were gone. Maybe not. The automated storage facility had an independent energy source.   Unless near the meteor strike, it likely was functioning.   And there were many harvestclones banks on Earth. In fact, the only Home sapien that would survive on Earth were ones with only a brain stem, not capable of thought. A world of vegetables.
	I chuckled to myself, as I often do. A reaction formalization to the universe. Harvestclones were completely dependent on technology, on machines. They could not think for themselves or for anyone else. They differed in only one aspect from the population that was wiped out: They couldn't vote.
	I decided to shelf the clone worry. All the organs my lifestyle was known to destroy were brand-spanking new. My lungs, though full-grown, were as pink as an infant's. My liver could handle Peitouian tap water. My nanomachines would eat any foreign entity until after I died. I had not a single carcinogenic cell in my body.
	Biotech was -- had been a major Earth export. I was sure the new fast growth harvestclone technology had reached Zippon. Besides, I was leaving on a journey from which no one had returned. The equation's summation: No worries, mate. Except likely death.
	May bon fa. Or, as Doris Day said: que sera, sera.
	Per our agreement, I was entitled to half Hukqer's and the copilot's advances. -Plus investment earnings. When I accessed their accounts, happy chemicals fired. The Peitouian stock market had grown twentyfold. Hukqer had                      done best; his investments were in a high-risk mutual fund that increased a hundredfold in value. Why? They were planning to exploit Earth. They hadn't done it yet, but the earning potential drove the fund into the ozone.
	I had the wisdom to prepare a contract with Hukqer and the copilot while onboard; not because I expected such ROIs.
	I feared they would not properly set the autopilot. I told them I was going to have the settings checked. They were happy to sign, to avoid certain death. Manchild Fourteen was the witness.
	It was a good move, because when Hukqer and the copilot saw their investment earnings, they selected the monetary value of a trip they had little chance of returning from.
	I taught them an ancient Earther phrase about hardened scatological products: tough shit.
	Always the Earther teacher.
	The universe was smiling at me, as it always seemed to do when I kept moving. I was almost as wealthy as when Earth was hit.
	Hi yo.
	But I would still go to Hadean. It wasn't about credits: it was my quest, my purpose.
	Perhaps my first and likely my last.
	Cherishing reptilian emotions, I placed a call to my ex-broker.
	He appeared quickly.
	"Hello, partner," I said.
	"Please leave me alone," he said.
	I ran my EarthEX card through the scanner. A thought occurred: how was the stability of EarthEX? Unthinking, I had put my new wealth on the card. They had offices throughout the universe, but headquarters were on Earth.
	Angus smiled and fiddled with his earring. "Well, hello. How is my favorite human?"
	"I'm fine."
	"I have a surprise, partner," Angus said. "I've been waiting for your call."
	Sure. And the Pope was from Earth.
	"Some Earthlings escaped," he said. "Those with political connections and immense wealth that could be transferred quickly."
	That was news. Not good news, but news. Only high-ranking politicians and the super-wealthy escaped? To spread their seed like it was Adam's? Great. The subspecies of humans that survived were the ones that had caused the planet's destruction? Just what the universe needed.
	Then again, who am I to second guess evolution?
	And there was another subspecies left: language mercenaries.
	Perhaps there was hope. Likely not, though.  Only the rich and the freaks remained.
	The holophone panned away from Angus. Gosu was sitting on a couch. He gave a little wave.
	"Hello," he said. "What's new?"
	I took the question as an informal greeting: that he didn't expect me to tell him my life since I last saw him.
	"Not much. Really like the jumpsuit. The pockets are great."
	"No probleemo. In case you are interested, they re-filed the charges against you after you left. Apparently a third scan of your hair revealed every illegal substance known to mankind, and then some. No "Hadean" though, interestingly enough."
	"What does it matter?" I asked. "With Earth gone?"
	"Not gone, partner," Angus interrupted. "Just most the humans.  There are some excellent investments..."
	"Shut up," I said.
	"Depends," Gosu said.
	"On what," I replied.
	"If you make it back to the Brim system. Angus tells me you're planning quite an adventure. Just before our old globe went blooey, an intergalactic treaty was signed allowing the exchange of criminal records. I understand that the Brim planets will honor the treaty despite Earth's destruction, as a way to weed out undesirables."
	I had no way of knowing if Gosu spoke the truth. He was, after all, a lawyer.
	"What about my harvestclones?" I asked.
	"I don't know," he replied. "My retainer with you was only valid on Earth. I didn't expect to leave. If you want to retain my services out here you'll have to sign a new contract. While I expect I will become valuable, as there are few Earthling lawyers around, right now I will give you a good rate. As a former client."
	I owed much to Gosu. My freedom, my life! If I had been imprisoned on Earth, I would be dead.
	My jumpsuit!
	“I retain you, Gosu. Check my clones in case I return."
	Angus interrupted. "You're quite the investor, calling the twentyfold rise in the Peitouian market. I had recommended the Zippon market, which showed impressive gains, but not like Peitou. Not that I would recommend relying on hunches. Investments require through research; the risks, the potential rewards. You were lucky. You should rely on an expert, not fate."
	I laughed. "An expert? What about my Earth money market accounts?"
	"Still hold that against me?" Angus asked.
	"No," I said, lying. "What about the stability of EarthEX? Are my credits safe?"
	"Yes and no. EarthEX is a multiplanet conglomerate. It wisely maintained hyperspace links with all major foreign exchanges, and when it became apparent that the barrage of nuclear missiles would not be able to divert the oncoming planetoid, it transferred all holdings to its office on Zippon. But headquarters were on Earth so it suffered a financial blow. Its intergalactic credit rating has been lowered, so I would recommended the transfer of all your credits to a highly respected, extremely safe investment firm like Dongshee Securities."
	"Dongshee Securities? Are you familiar with them?"
	"Of course," he said.
	It's funny. I had never asked where Angus worked -and it wasn't on his business card.
	"We are the largest, more secure investment firm in the universe, partner," he said. "Have been for almost a day."
	I maintained a poker face. "If I've learned one thing in the last few days, it's trust a professional. I didn't listen and almost lost my fortune. Did, actually, but got it back. So I'11 place everything with your firm.
	"Ahh," Angus said. "A wise investor. This time we will not put all your phuts in the same basket."
	I should have recognized the word, close to the Peitouian equivalent. "Phuts?" I asked.
	"Zipponian for eggs," Angus replied.
	"With one condition," I said.
	"What's that?"
	I lowered my jumpsuit, despite the fact the holophone was located in the center of the spaceport.
	"I know, I know," Angus said, approaching the screen.
	Suddenly, I had a better idea. Something much more distasteful to Angus.
	I raised my jumpsuit. "Just kidding."
	Angus smiled. "Good one."
	"I'11 transfer the funds before I leave Jungo," I said. "Angus, based on what you know, what do you think the odds are of me returning from Hadean?"
	"If it was anyone else, I'd say a million-to-one. But you are one lucky camper. Maybe a thousand-to-one."
	Better odds than I would have gave. Of course, I was his client. He had an obligation to brown-nose.
	"A thousand-to-one?" I said. "Really! Personally, I don't expect to return."
	"Not very good odds," Gosu pointed out.
	"True," I said. “Still, the only ones I have." I looked at my cybe. "I've got to go.”
	"Don't forget to transfer your credits," Angus said.
	"I won't."
	I walked to a wagering booth I had passed when I entered the spaceport. Although the Jungoian Derby had just been run, bets were being taken for next year's race. Paramecium races took a while to complete. In fact, the next year's race started the day after the year before's finished.
	The Jungoian Derby was the most popular wagering event in the universe. Run like an Earth horse race, the contestants, Jungoian giant paramecium, ciliated around a water-covered race track. There were thousands of entries. I couldn't fathom why it was so popular. Perhaps because the length of the race, a Jungoian year, and that the market for wagers was very liquid. Odds changed daily. You could sell your wager at a profit if your paramecium was ahead, or hold it in hopes of greater returns -- perhaps until the end of the race. Wagering options existed to go short, betting on the failure of a contestant, or, for the risk-adverse, in mutual funds than invested in several contestants in a mixture of win, place, and show bets. Some entries had such impressive records that they paid you in small quarterly installments, if they were doing well.
	My snail-brain slid forward.
	Yes, the Jungoian Derby was the most popular wagering event in the universe. Earth's stock market was gone.
	I bought a betting guide. I was surprised to find, but shouldn't have been, that all contestants had Earther names:      
	"Very Quickie Protozoan."
	"Biggy Winner."
	"Bob."
	“Biggy Biggy Winner."
	"Biggy Biggy Biggy Winner."
	Perhaps I should stay. There was a fortune to be made selling thesauruses.
	I turned the page and there she was. I say she from habit; protozoa’s were asexual.
	"Personal Savior."
	She was a beautiful mass of protoplasm, cilia gleaming.  Her nucleolus was pert, her buccal grove inviting.
	I looked at her odds: a thousand-to-one.
	To use an outdated term, now that all Earth religions were apparently extinct: A match made in heaven.
	I checked my balance: a billion and one credits. I hadn't expected any -- if I looked at it from yesterday's perspective, I was broke. And it might as well be yesterday, as I was going on a journey with no hopes of tomorrow.
	I bet a billion on Personal Savior. I transferred the rest to Angus.

CHAPTER 37

	Wager complete, I went back to the ship. Remnant. I must remember. Manchild Fourteen had an ice-cold barley pop waiting.
	I had found my trusted copilot. Not that either of us could fly Remnant.
	The autopilot lifted off without incident. The wormhole and what came after was the problem. It was ten minutes to the hole and to soothe our concerns Manchild Fourteen and I managed a beer each minute.
	When the going gets prime the primed get going.
	We emerged from the wormhole unscathed. Lucky us, but the true journey was ahead of us. With no cognitive pilot. I scanned through the handbook, written in Peitouian, but was no bilingual Evelyn Wood.
	I doubted that even the Supreme Being would understand the reference.	The road to Hadean was uncharted. With no pilots to guide us around obstacles that presented themselves, even a tiny piece of interstellar matter could destroy our ramjet, leaving us floating out of control in an uncharted portion of the universe.
	On the flip side, Manchild Fourteen and I had twice as much barley pop as I had anticipated.
	Life is full of tradeoffs.
	As fate would have it, an infinitely small piece of interstellar matter did destroy our ramjet. We spun out of control. I looked through the manual only to find the important sections were in Peitouian.
	Hello, how are you?
	Thank the Supreme Being we had our beer or Manchild Fourteen and I would have worried. At least now we didn't have to concern ourselves with steering the ship, or worse, sitting in the cockpit among whatever fungus evolved on shelled Peitouian birdbeaks.
	We would just go wherever we were going. Like I always had. The artificial gravity adjusted to the ship's spin. I think. At times I thought it faltered, but ascribed it barley pop.
	Everything was OK, to use that popular term. I suspected "OK" would survive the destruction of Earth because of its frequency throughout the cosmos. Perhaps Earther itself had become so widespread -- the language of the spheres? -- that Earthlings would become more valuable. After all, how else would Jungoians, Zipponese, and Peitouians communicate? The only common language was Earther, despite its lack of planet.
	Yes, Manchild Fourteen and I were OK. Until a few months later when we awoke to find our barley pop supply exhausted. Something had to be done. Manchild Fourteen and I weighed our options. First, we decided to sleep off the hangovers that had been peculating for six months. Peitouian months, mind you.
	There weren't many choices.
	We awoke several days later. Manchild Fourteen was brave enough to venture into the cockpit. The muck on the floor had solidified. He motioned me in.
	It occurred to me that my watch could translate Peitouian. That would have helped. Too late.
	I looked out the windshield. We were orbiting a gigantic planet. At first I thought it might be a sun, but realized it couldn't be or we would have melted. I should say I assumed it was a planet; it was so large we could only see a fraction. For all I knew it was a flat piece of space filled with clouds. But the computer said we were orbiting something.
	Perhaps it was the repercussions of infinite barely pops -- and my liver was hurting, Supreme Being it. Far, far away from harvestclones. As far away as possible. But I swore the swirling clouds spelled "Hello" for a brief moment.
	The radio crackled.
	I wiped the putrefied beaks from the chair, sat down, and picked up the receiver.
	"Hello. Is anybody out there?" I asked, not expecting a reply, much less the one I got.
	"It's about time," Shaman said. "Did you save any beer?"
	"No," I replied. "Is it important?"
	"He's going to be pissed," Shaman said. "Me too."     
	"He?" I asked.
	"Don't take everything so literally," Shaman said.
 
CHAPTER 38

	The universe is a small place, perhaps the smallest. Or was it the other way around?
	Hard to tell.
	I assumed we were orbiting Hadean.
	"Hadean?" I asked.
	"Yes," Shaman said. "Is that a stupid question or what? Still, I suppose it is one I might ask, if presented with your circumstances. Which I'm not. But the last few months have taught me one thing for certain: I likely did not create this universe. Or if I did, the game goes deeper than I imagined. Which is very possible. I'd ask but I already have."
	Same old Shaman. We only had audio or I would show him my jumpsuit. I knew he would be impressed.
	"But I seem to recall that our ship ... Remnant is her name..."
	"Fitting," Shaman said. "With the Earth thing.”
	"Yes, I suppose so," I replied. "Remnant's ramjet was destroyed by a piece of space refuse, causing us to spin out-of-control in uncharted space with no hope of survival." "Does this story have a point?" Shaman asked.
	"And then," I said. "We ran out of beer."
	"Horrible," Shaman gasped, then continued. "Horrible."
	"It was," I said. "We..."
	"We?" Shaman asked.
	"Me and Manchild Fourteen. My co-pilot. Well, neither of us can fly the ship. He is one of Manchild's Mongkut offspring. .."
	"How is Manchild?" Shaman interrupted.
	"OK, I assume. He went back to Mongkut and declared his island sovereign. He is also breeding fryfish for export."
	"All good news," Shaman said. "I was afraid he had gone back to Earth. Everybody else OK?"
	"They weren't on Earth, as far as I know."
	"Good, good," Shaman said. "Then what happened?"
	"We awoke to find ourselves orbiting Hadean. And here we are."
	"What did you expect?" Shaman said. "Wherever you go, there you are. Are you recording this?"
	"Not to my knowledge," I said.  "Why?"
	"From an ancient Earth 2D vid.  Buckaroo Banzai. Got quite a collection here. Copyright infringement and all that."
	"From Earth?" I asked.
	"Oh, yeah," Shaman replied. "Things change. You really have no beer?"
	"No. Would you?" Manchild Fourteen nudged me but I ignored him.
	"I suppose not," Shaman relied. "Disappointing, though. Causes my faith to waiver."
	Manchild Fourteen bumped me harder.
	"What?" I said.
	"What?" Shaman replied.
	"Nothing. What do you want?"
	"Me?" Shaman asked.
	I turned the radio off and turned to Manchild Fourteen.
	"What?" I repeated.
	"Father instructed me to store four cases of barley pop for Hadean. They are underneath the pilot seat." He lifted Hukqer's. Glistening bottles of the generic brew we were drinking, “Barley Pop" sat eagerly.
	That made me angry, a rare emotion but one that had plenty of enjoyable hormones.
	"Why?" I asked.
	"Instructions," Manchild Fourteen said.
	I turned the radio back up.
	"Correction," I said. "We have four cases of Barley Pop."
	"What kind?" Shaman asked.
	"Generic. Barley Pop."
	"Oh," Shaman said. "I can't complain; beggars can't be choosers." He corrected himself. "Not that He or I are beggars..."
	"He?" I asked.
	I blinked and found myself in a bright room.

CHAPTER 39

	It took a minute for my pupils to adjust. Outlines firmed with squinting. There seemed no corners in the room. Shaman stood next to me and next to him sat the Barley Pop. "Cool jumpsuit," Shaman said. "With pockets, even." I smiled and unzipped it to reveal my Bing Floom. "Cool Bing Floom tattoo," Shaman said. "Except it
doesn't have a mane."
	I looked. He was right; no hair had grown back.
	I stepped forward and shook Shaman's hand. He looked healthy, as did the Barley Pop.
	"Hello, how are you?" I asked Shaman. I did not expect a response from the beer although it wouldn't have been a surprise to get one the way things were going. Shaman smiled. "I am fine. And you?"
	"I am fine," I replied.
	"Good," Shaman said. "I see you Earther skills have not diminished."
	"No more than usual," I said. I could see things clearly now, except there was nothing to see except Shaman and the beer. "What about Remnant and Manchild Fourteen?"
	"They are also fine," Shaman said. "They are orbiting Hadean. First ship ever to do so, to my knowledge. Not that my knowledge is all-encompassing. Certainly it has limits. Math, for instance."
	"Uh, huh," I replied.
	"Strictly a right-brained hominoid. Yes siree." Shaman pointed at the beer. With my self-adjusting visual acuity I saw there were only three cases. "Left Manchild Fourteen a case," Shaman said.
	"Very thoughtful," I replied. "What happens now?"
	"The Supreme Being would like to talk to you."
	"I suspected as much," I replied.
	"Follow me," Shaman said.
	I did.

CHAPTER 40

	Shaman led me outside. I was surprised to find that Hadean's atmosphere was composed primarily of nitrogen, with just enough oxygen to light a deathstick.
	"Wrong," Shaman said.
	"What?" I replied.
	"Hadean's atmosphere has no oxygen. Want my postulation? Hadean doesn't exist."
	"Oh," I naturally replied and continued to follow Shaman. Little use in asking how he read my thoughts. I noted he was carrying the Barley Pop. No memory existed of him picking it up.
	"Beer stop," I said nervously. The terrain was rugged and I was thirsty.
	Shaman looked about. For the first time I noticed the lack of horizons; things ended with a blurry edge, like reality was being projected.
	Come to think of it, isn't it always like that?
	Shaman sat down on a seemingly solid rock and opened a very real beer.
	"Futhark!" he said. "When the going gets prime, the primed get going."
	"True, bro," I replied. "And never before have I needed a beer as much as now." I had said that ten-thousand times before. But this time I meant it.
	Always had, though.
	"Is there a problem?" I asked.
	Shaman looked around again. "No. The Supreme Being is already upset at me, so a beer or two couldn't make things worse. I think. But who's to know..."
	We drank a case.
	I followed Shaman without complaint to a red-rocked dead-end canyon. It resembled something from my childhood that I couldn't place. Like most of my childhood.
	It seemed all too familiar.
	Shaman disappeared. There was a rumble ahead of me; an image began to form. It was a gigantic humanoid head which solidified as it turned.
	Oh my.
	I had never been determinist, except when I felt like it, but a sense of deja vu filled me.
	The immense head spoke. "Earthling."
	Must mean me. Shaman was gone. He had left the beer, however, so I reached for one.
	I gave what I assumed was the typical response. I wanted to be more creative, but failed.
	Hello, how are you?" I said.
	The decapitated image blared red; preferably a result of the sandstone backdrop which shone through. Hopefully the Supreme Being wasn't pissed. Bad karma, big time.
	"I am fine. You and?" The image said, smiling.
	I couldn't help myself. "And you?"
	"What? "
	"And you? Not 'you and?' 'I am fine. And you?"' I said, getting more nervous with each word.
	"Oh," the voice roared. "This Earther stuff is tough. No logic. Natural, I guess, since it comes from a portion of the universe with little logic. Amazing you smelly monkeys pulled it off."
	"Apes," I said.
	"What, like a tail makes a difference?"
	"And tool use," I said. "If you count those extinct chimps poking for termites."
	"OK, OK," the Supreme Being said. "You know, I was surprised when Shaman arrived. I thought Earthlings quadrupeds."
	He hadn't seen Shaman at night.
	"Why's that?" I asked.
	"Picked up a stray broadcast on the electromagnetic spectrum late one night. "A horse is a horse, of course, of course. .."
	"But why..." I noticed I had ceased use my mouth to speak.
	"Use your mouth, Earthling," the Supreme Being said.  "I'm trying to learn this Earther stuff."
	"OK," I said aloud.
	"Earthling," He/She/It repeated, although it looked like a He. He/She/It read my thoughts. "This projection is for you, Earthling. I am not a He, She, or It. I have chosen a Caucasian male decapitated head figure as I am told it will garner your respect."
	He/She/It was right. Raised on Earth, I feared an anthropomorphic white Christian God.
	"Earthling. I am everything and nothing. You could not comprehend my being, despite your admirable Earther skills and knowledge of intergalactic beer."
	There was a movement to my right; an intermittent, apparently imaginary desert wind seemed to be dislodging a cloth fixed to the rocks.
	"Pay no attention, Earthling. That is a command."
	"OK," I said, not wanting to argue. I focused on the wavy head.
	Fear wallowing in my subconscious, apparently suppressed by my amazement, decided to manifest itself. This was the Supreme Being, after all.
	Actually, that was only what Shaman had said but I didn't feel like disputing it. What if the Supreme Being decided to judge my life? Was I a saint or a sinner? I speak honestly when I say I had no idea. I could see both sides.
	Always could. Well, maybe not.
	Fear caused neural routes to whiz, paralyzing all brain activity except nonvoluntary activities.
	Which was everything, I guess.
	If I was to be judged by the criteria expounded in The Bible I was doomed. Well, maybe not the New Testament. But the Old would do me for sure. But I had led a good life; surely the Supreme Being would understand. Either I was doomed or I wasn't.  Nothing to lose, then. I had decided my course long ago.  Even if Mr. Id had done it for me. I decided to repent, just in case. Hedge my bets.
	"Forgive me, Oh Supreme Being, for I have sinned."
	"How?" He/She/It asked. "Have you killed anything, except for food or shelter?
	"Not to my knowledge," I replied. "Unless you count staging insects wars between different species of bugs when I was a child."
	"Have you hurt anything?"
	Talk about loaded questions!
	I did my best. "No. Except contract spouses, although I suspect they were happy to be rid of me." I corrected myself. "Yes. My monetary profits surely came from exploitation of the weak and underprivileged."
	"So? What about it? This capitalism thing interests me, Earthling. Tell me about it."
	"What?" I replied to the red, glimmering head. A multisyllabic word backstroked to my consciousness: Technicolor.
	"What about my sins?" I asked. "Am I forgiven?"
	"Will it bring you peace if I say yes?"
	"Not sure," I said. "Worth a try."
	"Do all Earthlings think in such ... black and white?" He/She/It was proud at the simile.
	"It's not a simile," I said.
	"What?" The Supreme Being said.
	"It's a metaphor. Not a simile," I said.
	"Oh. Thank you. This Earther stuff is tough."
	"Not for me."
	"You come from a species of accidental mutants."
	"Oh." I suspected as much. "So am I forgiven?" I asked.
	"Yes. Not that it matters. Take it from me. Where do these concerns come from?"
	“The Bible," I replied.
	"The what?" He/She/It said.
	"The Bible."
	"What's that?"
	"An ancient Earthling manuscript."
	"Oh," the Supreme Being said. "Enough. I did not bring you to Hadean to tell me thoughts about your best friend's wife. Who cares? Tell me about this capitalism thing."
	The presence of the Supreme Being kicked my memory into high gear. I remembered things that had been forgotten for decades. I spent hours, days?, explaining capitalism and the various economic theories behind it.
	I had worked my way through another case of beer before He/She/It interrupted.
	"Save a case me for," The Supreme Being said.
	"For me," I replied.
	"Right. That's what I meant. Continue."
	"...and Keynesian theory says..."
	"Tell me again about the Laffer Curve," the Supreme Being said.
	I expounded and was drowned out by a chuckled worthy of the Supreme Being.
	"The Laffer Curve," He/She/It said. "My Earther skills are improving if I understand the humor. Homonym, right?"
	The comment surprised me but shouldn't have based on our prior conversation. I had assumed the three O's: Omnipotent, Omnipresent, Omniscient.
	The Supreme Being was still chuckling but managed to read my thoughts. “Give me some credit, monkey. Sorry. Ape. I see it's a personal thing. Lots to keep track of. This capitalism thing -- make a profit, designed higher systems of order based on productivity, self-adjusting, is quite an invention." He/She/It chuckled again. "And from a bunch of ... apes in the Milky Way! Who could guessed? Not me. "
	Memory circuits whirred. Somewhere, sometime, I had seen this before. Maybe not exactly, but close. It was stuck on the tip of my brain.
	Another thought struck, like they always did.
	I looked at the red head. "Why do you need to learn Earther when you can read minds?"
	"Grammar, mostly," He/She/It said.
	"Oh," I replied.
	"Thoughts are all pretty similar, aren't they? You can read my thoughts if I let you. Like now. Yet we share no common language. Let me phrase it better: Hopes, fears, wants, needs. Those are universal. Even Jungoian giant paramecium have such thoughts, albeit without much concern about whether they absorb their offspring or not. But this capitalism stuff -- this is new, in the realm of abstract. It did not exist before it was thought of. It is based on those universal thoughts and worries, but goes a new direction. And it is not translatable unless you know the language; it is ingrained in it. It is not based in the fabric of reality. I should know."
	I again noticed a ripple to my left.
	"Pay no attention, ape," the Supreme Being said. He/She/It looked at me. "This capitalism thing interests me. It is Earther in origin. Certainly nothing in the Brim System thought of it before. I grasped the concepts but until I brought you here I did not understand."
	"Why the beer?" I asked.
	"What?" The Supreme Being asked.
	Not omniscient by any means.
"Why the beer?" I repeated.
	"It is really for Shaman. We had a deal. He would help bring you here and in return I arranged for you to bring excess beer. I see you enjoy the liquid as well." "Why me?"
	"No other has your Earther teaching skills."
	"Really?" I asked.
	"No. But you are well-rounded and have a good memory."
	"Uh huh," I said. Memories of an ancient 2D show haunted me: what if the Supreme Being was really just a superior alien taunting me?
	No way to tell.
	"So I am the chosen one?" I asked.
	"In a 'there you are, hello how are you,' sense, yes."
	"What about Earth?" I asked.
	"The destruction thing? Sorry about that. I had no reason to suspect such a backwater portion would have any importance. Had no idea that amino acids had got that far. Can't keep track of everything."
	"But Earth is gone," I said.
	"No, it's not," the Supreme Being said, sympathy crossing his illusory face. "Nothing is ever gone. But I can understand your pain. Look at it this way, from my perspective: No loss of matter, unless your counting what was converted into light. And it's the same in the end. Take my word for it. Only thought matters. Something I cannot control. Not that I want to. Be pretty boring if I did."
	He/She/It paused. "Just He," He said.
	"What?" I replied.
	"Just He. I see from your thoughts that you give equal preference to all lifeforms, except in a horny reproductive sense. Which is admirable. Life must go on. But all this punctuation is driving me crazy. Just He, for convenience sake.
	"OK," I replied.
	"And Earth will live forever from this new system of thought. I will see to that. I am, after all, the Supreme Being."
	A pyrotechnic display followed, with many nearby stars super-novaing. Very convincing.
	"I'm sorry about the Earth thing, though. If I'd had any inkling such progressive ideas would arise there, I would have done something. Random events are unpredictable except in terms of probabilities, you know." He chuckled. "And from a bunch of monkeys! Carbon based, even!"
	"Apes," I said.
	"Sorry. Apes."
	"Ook, ook," I replied.
	"Sorry, sorry," He said. "My apologies."
	The wind again ruffled the curtain I had noticed earlier. I walked towards it. To my surprise, I reached it.

CHAPTER 41

	The memory steamrolled to the surface; it hit my upper layers like a freight maglev train. I had seen this before. I pulled the curtain back.
	"I didn't know your knowledge of ancient Earthling 2D vids was so great," Shaman said.
	"The Wizard Of Oz," I said.
	"Yep," Shaman said.  "A classic, in my opinion. Not that my opinion matters. I am but an ape from a discarded planet. Like you."

CHAPTER 42

	"Why?"  I asked.
	"Why?"  Shaman replied.
	"Yes, why?"
	"A fair question, one I would likely ask. And have, many times. May bon fa," Shaman said. "As far as I can tell there is no answer." He turned and pointed to the gigantic head. The Supreme Being had an impatient look on His face. "You can ask, but I suspect I know His answer."
	"What's that?" I asked.
	"He just works here," Shaman said. "He's got a good sense of humor, once you get to know Him. Must have to created this universe."
	"No," I said. "Not that. Why The Wizard of Oz?"
	"I didn't think you had seen it. Jesus, it's hundreds of years old! How was I to know you'd seen it? He brought me here so you wouldn't be intimidated. A friend in a faraway place type of thing. He correctly guessed that actually, he probably knew, since he is the Supreme Being, that I would be able to cope with the situation. It is likely a result of my experimentation with strange substances and situations -- nothing surprise me anymore. Especially after that raw fryfish. But my lack of fear might result from brain damage. Hard to know. But I do hope Manchild succeeds with his exporting plans..."
	"You weren't afraid?" I interrupted.
	"At first.  Then I realized if you're afraid of the Creator, you're in big trouble." Shaman shivered. "If you can't trust the Supreme Being, who can you trust?"
	Good point.
	"He's incomprehensible, you know." Shaman said, then corrected himself. "I think."
	"I suspected as much," I replied.
	"He wanted to be able to talk to your and required a format you could understand, that you could reply to. But one that garnered respect. I'm no creative whiz. How could I know you had seen The Wizard of Oz?"
	I tried to speak but Shaman continued. "Of course, it is a classic from PreBloc days. How did you see it?"
	"They invented a new process a while ago to turn 2D into hole. Many ancient classics were re-released. Star Wars -- I swear there is a Peitouian in the bar scene, Catch-22, T2. And Wizard of Oz, although it wasn't popular. Too hard to understand. Flying monkeys, witches, midgets with high voices. But I saw it."
	"2D into holo?" Shaman said. "I missed that. Must have been while I was on Peitou."
	It had happened before Shaman had got his nickname, before he left Earth. I refrained from pointing it out. Shaman hadn't paid much attention to his life on Earth. Or anywhere, for that matter.
	"Sacrilegious, isn't it?" Shaman said.
	"Ignoring the Supreme Being?" I looked over my shoulder at the increasingly impatient head.
	"No, no," Shaman relied. "Putting 2D classics on hole."
	"I suppose so," I replied. "Sorry I drank so much of the beer."
	"Oh, well," Shaman replied.
	"I didn't know," I said.
	"That's OK. Still got a case left. Care to join me in my dink after you finish with the Supreme Being?"
	"Sure." A thought emerged. "Why doesn't He just create some for you?"
	"What, make something from nothing? No fermented yeast byproducts here."
	"How did you make the Wizard of Oz set, then?" I asked.
	"Oh, all the necessary compounds were present on Hadean. Or on nearby planetoids, as Hadean might not exist. But no yeast. No lifeforms at all. Just you and me, bro."
	"Hadean is an illusion?"
	"Possibly. Probably, actually. It think it is a prop. Perhaps this set is as well, but it seems real." Shaman pulled a lever and a burst of flame erupted in front of the Supreme Being. "I've lived a life of illusions and this set seems real. He could have created some imaginary beer for me, but I would have known it was fake." Shaman took a swig of Barley Pop and grimaced. "Perhaps not, though.
	He continued. "I suspect He reasoned He could never get you here if your destination was a black hole or whatever this place is. Lifeforms seem to prefer planets.
	"So what does He want?" I asked.
	"Just what he said. To learn Earther."
	"Why?"
	"To learn the ways and means, the ins and outs, the black and reds of capitalism," Shaman said. "It is a system of thought where private needs and wants run rampant. Where everything is based on competition: price, production, distribution. More than that, it is logical; self-correcting. It strives towards greater efficiencies. The inefficient is eliminated; only the strong survive. He took a lassie-faire approach this time around. His first, though."
	"Good speech," I said.
	"Didn't understand a word of it," Shaman said. "Read it somewhere."
	"Doesn't evolution do the same thing?" I asked.
	"No," the Supreme Being said. Shaman and I turned.
	"Well, yes," the Supreme Being said. "In a sense. I see what you're thinking. But evolution has no meaning beyond what lifeform manages to survive. Which is all the same. On a per planet basis, species seems important. But it doesn't translate on a cosmic scale. No planning. Oh, a race here and there may conquer other planets, other universes. I don't keep track anymore; it ebbs and flows. But they impart nothing; they invent rockets and quantum physics. Over and over and over. Nothing I didn't already know. Not like this Capitalism."
	Capitalized no less. I realized we had again switched to thought as a conversational basis.
	"Oh," I thought.
	"Shaman taught Me Earth history. Still, his knowledge is better than one would suspect, with the brain damage and all that."
	"Thank you," Shaman said aloud, then thought "I knew it.”
	"You're welcome. Is that right? You're welcome?"
	"Yes," Shaman and I replied.
	"Good. Protozoa, trilobites, Home sapien. Peitouians, Zipponians, Flgerzum."
	"Flgerzum?" I asked.
	"Did I get that right?" The Supreme Being asked.
	"Not sure,” I replied.
	"You know. They almost conquered the universe. A fun loving bunch. Loved symmetrical rock structures. I wonder what happened to them?"
	"Perhaps before my time?" I replied.
	"Maybe so, maybe so. Mix and match; from the same                          281
caldron. Throw some amino acids in and stir, bake several million years -- heck, a billion. See what comes out. Pop it back in, stir some more, see what comes out. Civilization, space travel, discovery of laws that are as obvious as a sexual species’ reproductive organ. Over and over. Not that I am proactive; I just started the thing running. But this theory of self-adjusting thought. I see that it can be applied productively."
	"Science?" I asked.
	"No. Everybody invents science after a while.  Invents? That is not the proper Earther term."
	"Discovers?" I said.
	"You are a very good teacher. Yes, discovers. For science is based on physical laws -- you don't invent them, just figure out what makes things tick. The laws are always there; it's a matter of time -- discovering them. You can't change them. Figuring out universal laws -- what's the big deal? Everybody does it, given enough time. Every intergalactic species has discovered science -- so what? Hell, if Earthlings really knew any science, a rock floating since the beginning of time would never had destroyed their planet. The Flgerzum would have deflected it before it had gotten to their galaxy, much less their planet. When a fart would have done the job.
	He continued. "Capitalism, however, is abstract. It doesn't exist."
	"Oh," I said. All news to me.
	"Even the Flgerzum never discovered Capitalism. To gain a profits from transactions. To see the universe as an entity from which riches can be gained."
	"Doesn't that violated the law of thermodynamics?" I asked timidly.
	"What?" the Supreme Being asked.
	"The law of thermodynamics," I replied. "Every action has a reaction? You can't get something for nothing? If you make something here, it is gained from something somewhere else?"
	I was pretty shaky on Newton's laws, to be truthful.
	"Not sure," the Supreme Being said. "But that's science, not Capitalism. No harm in finding out." He disappeared, leaving only Shaman, me, and the beer.
	His voice continued after He was gone. "...the worse that can happen is that I am wrong..."
	I looked at Shaman. "What did you tell Him? And what does He mean 'No harm in finding out?'"
I blinked. It was a reflex I was finding detrimental, from a equilibratory point of view. Now I was in Shaman's dink, a duplicate of mine on Peitou.
	"Closest thing I ever found to home," Shaman said. "Not that you can ever go back. And not that I would want to. Wherever home is or was. I woke up on your couch more times than I can count. Not saying much, having only twenty digits." He laughed. "Care for a beer?"
	"OK," I said. "Why not? The dink was a perfect reproduction, down to the hole in the wall Neon had kicked during a loid blowout. Hadn't that happened after Shaman left for Hadean?
	Shaman handed me a beer and I struggled with the cap. No Mongkut was I, but I managed.
	"What did you tell Him," I repeated. "And what does He mean 'We'll find out?'"
	"First question first?" Shaman asked.
	I took a healthy swig in preparation. "Yes."
	"I told Him what I knew about Capitalism. Not a lot, admittedly. Let's say I told Him my perspectives on the dogma."
	"Like what?" A deeper swill of beer. Shaman handed me another.
	"First, let me point out that He has preconceived notions on the subject, after observing the Brim system. He's never seen Capitalism before, and is impressed with its results. Earth was a dim impulse, but He monitored the Brim system because it was close. What did He call them? Oh, yes. 'A bunch of wankers.' They were like a vid stuck on replay; over and over it went. I think he felt the same way about all lifeforms throughout the universe. Some impulse started the amino acids combining, then reproducing. Next thing you know they are sacrificing inferior lifeforms for the crops, then colonizing nearby rocks. Perhaps they expand, perhaps they contract. You might have noticed He hasn't paid a lot of attention to Earth..."
	"Until it was too late," I said.
	"Well, aren't we the solipsist. Too late for what?"     "Too late to save the planet!"
	"What do you want? For Him to keep track of every planet with lifeforms, of every piece of interstellar gravel floating about, fulfilling only those trajectories that they had been following since the Big Boing?"
	"Big Bang," I said.
	"That's not what he calls it," Shaman said. "He ought	to know.
	"Why?" I asked.
	"Because the universe is like a rubber band -- it stretches out, then stretches back."

	I conceded the point. Big Being it was.
	"I don't think you understand," Shaman continued. "He is the Supreme Being, yes. But He only started the universe rolling; what happens tomorrow is beyond His control. Oh He's got a pretty good guess. Thanks to His advice I moved my investments away from Earth in time. I pushed Him to give me His picks on the Jungoian Derby but He politely refused.”
	"Does He have any other investment advice?"
	"Buy low, sell high. I think He grasps Capitalism pretty well."
	"That is your explanation of Capitalism? Buy low, sell high?"
	"No. That was His. And I must admit, that advice allowed me to make enough credits to get to Hadean," Shaman reflected. "Is there more to Capitalism?"
	Great.
	"And what about my second question?"   I asked.
	Shaman rubbed his chin. "And what was that?"
	"What does He mean when He says 'We'll find out?'"
	"Good question. One I would likely ask, if I didn't know the answer. Although I probably would ask about the afterlife first."
	I hadn't thought of that. Who better to ask than the Supreme Being?
	"As I understand it," Shaman said, "He is planning to recreate the universe and start anew. With Capitalism at its core."
	"What?" I said. "Recreate the universe? Doesn't that imply the destruction of the current one?"
	"He did ask me if it I thought it was OK to start over."
	"And what did you say?"
	"Why not?" Shaman replied. "I'm no fan of this existence."
	"The fate of the universe was on your shoulders and you said 'Why not?'"
	"Yep. "
	I ran my hands through my hair. "This is terrible. It couldn't get worse."
	"Don't be so sure," Shaman said. "For if there is one thing I've learned during my increasingly strange journeys is that things can always get worse."
	"What could be worse than the destruction of the universe?" I asked.
	"Facing the destruction of the universe with no beer," Shaman said.
	"True," I said. "Hand me one."
	"We're out."

CHAPTER 44

"Didn't you explain that buy low, sell high is a zero sum game?" I asked Shaman. "That the winners win because they take from the losers? That getting something from nothing violates the laws of thermodynamics?"
	"The what?" Shaman responded.
	"The laws of thermodynamics."
	"I don't know. To use a favorite quote, recently acquired: I only work here."
	"Doing what?" I asked.
	"Not sure," Shaman sighed. "What a question! And I suppose you have a purpose?
	I finally had one.
	"To save the universe," I said.
	"Give me a break," Shaman replied.
	A bus appeared in the corner. I recognized it. It was number 54, from Peitou. So here was where the 54's route stopped. The end of the universe.
	"You do not understand the difference between Capitalism and science," the Bus said. "Despite your MBA."
	Shaman did not speak but I saw his thoughts. "Bust.
Decapitated head. Not bus. Bust. From the shoulders up."    The Bus reformed into The Head I recalled.
	"OK, bust. I see," It said. "My mistake."
	Shaman laughed. "Good thing your homonyms are lacking. Although I wouldn't mind. In fact, I would like it." He turned to me. "Do you have good vids onboard?"
	"Yes," I said. "With our planet destroyed, probably the greatest collection of Earthling tissue nuzzling in the cosmos." I blinked and Shaman was gone. I suspected that, despite his hormones, the remaining case of Barley Pop on the ship influenced his departure.
	It was my duty to save the universe. Or was it? Earth was gene -- no, it was there. Just most lifeforms had disappeared. Earth still had its heavy compounds; its metals, its minerals. There might be a lack of oxygen, of C02 -- for a while, but that was the extent of it. Actually, the mass extinction’s might be good for the planet. Stop the Greenhouse Effect, at least.
	But what about my peer group, spread throughout the cosmos? They survived. And my students on Peitou? The end of existence surely would hurt a little.
	Comprehension filled me. The loss of this universe, despite its wonders, was no great thing.
	But the Jungoian Derby! My billion credits on Personal Savior!
	I had an interest in preserving the universe, after all.
	How to approach the subject?
	"You need not speak, Earthling," The Bust said. "I see your thoughts. And even if you spoke, I would understand. Despite what you think, you are The Best Earther Teacher. I have gained all your knowledge through our conversations. You probably don't remember. I work pretty quick. You are not an expert in any field but are well-rounded.
	"Your skill are not grammar, but abstract Earther thought."
	"Is not grammar," I said.
	"Right," He said. "That's your fault. You had a tiny stroke in your language center that causes difficulty with grammar. Don't worry. Ultimately, grammar is pretty meaningless. Take it from me. Designed by anal-retentive types."
	I had suspected as much.
	"That is another reason I chose you. You are willing to correct Me when I error. I admire you for that."
	"Thank you," I said. "And how are you?"
	He chuckled. "I am fine. Also, Personal Savior is a pretty good bet."
	A billion credits at a hundred-to-one? Nine zeros in a billion, three ... no, two, in a hundred...
	"A hundred billion credits," He said. "Not a bad payout. Are all humans so bad at math?"
	"Yes. That is why they invented computers."
	"Oh,” He said.
	"How can you do math so quickly if you have my knowledge?" I asked.
	"Math skills I already had; came with My territory. Basis of the universe and all that."	
	The Supreme Being said Personal Savior was a 'pretty good bet' and the payout was a hundred billion credits?
	The universe must be saved.
	"You think I do not understand Capitalism, but I do," The Supreme Being said. "Perhaps it is wrong to label that system of thought." He reflected. "Yes, with my new Earther skills I see that it is. I do not mean Capitalism per se, but a method of organized, self-correcting thought. I see now there have been other Earthling methods that have arisen but which were subsumed by Capitalism. They are but a derivative or forethought to this exciting system.
	"But I see why you equate science with what you think My understanding of Capitalism is. To you, science is increasingly rational thought. Trust me when I tell you it isn't. As I tried to say before, the discovery of science is the discovery of what was already there. I now understand your reference to 'laws of thermodynamics' Believe me, I understand them. I created them! You are -and you know it -- simplifying things greatly. A zero-sum game! Oh, I'11 give you index options as zero-sum. But Capitalism as a whole takes previously worthless materials, raw matter, and imparts them with value. I see what you are thinking. Yes, that is what evolution does. But it is random, not planned."
	"You really are going to destroy the universe!"
	"That's your perspective," He said. "Mathematics will be the groundwork for the new universe as well. What else? This time I will plan some though, and follow up. I thought it would be fun to just sit back and see what happened but now I see some organization might be more enjoyable. I am, and have been for some time, pretty bored.
	"Do not hold a grudge. But I see now I created this universe with terrible inefficiency, letting random forces go this way and that. Can you imagine a universe where cost/benefits ratios were done on each step of the way? Where lifeform development was not haphazard, where things are not left to chance, to meteorological flukes or gaseous contents of atmospheres? Where thing have some direction? The possibilities are infinite..."
	"I get the picture," I said. "How do you know this new universe will work any better than a random one?"
	"I don't. But there's no harm in trying."
	"Oh," I said.
	"Just imagine," He said. "Organization. Flow charts. Marketing projections...”
	"Will this new universe be any fun?" I asked.
	"For Me."

CHAPTER 45

	There was no changing the Supreme Being's mind. That left one relevant question, from the perspective of a lifeform residing in the present universe. Well, two, but I again forgot to ask about life after death.
	"How long before you create this new universe?" I asked.
	At the very least, I would like to get back to Remnant, see Shaman and Manchild Fourteen, and have a beer before all went kablooey.
	"How long?" He said. "Hmmm."
	"Yes," I said.
	"Difficult to translate. Let's see. An hour, a second, an era, a century, a period, a nanosecond, a millennium ... you Earthlings have more divisions of time than I thought possible."
	"Sorry," I said. "Best guess."
	"A minute," He said.
	"A minute," I echoed. Not much time to reflect on the universe you were born in.  Everything, all I knew, gone. Everything. Including me. And my bet on Personal Savior. 
	"Did I say a minute?" the Supreme Being asked.
	"Yes."
	"These infinitesimal divisions of time give Me problems." He paused.   "I'm sorry -- what's that other word that begins with 'm'?"  Oh, yes: a millennium. Approximately, in Earthling time.”
	A thousand years. Enough for a couple good primes. I blinked, and found myself on Remnant.

CHAPTER 46

	The beer was gone -- no surprise with Shaman and Manchild Fourteen manning the fort -- but the ship, the universe, was still there. A tradeoff, yes. Sober, Manchild Fourteen, Shaman, and I had a long journey back. With no pilot. Despite the fact we didn't load any commands into the computer, Remnant took off.
	The months went slowly, despite the holes. I had a lot to reflect on. For instance, how Remnant was navigating by herself. Otto, as I had named her. Maybe the Supreme Being was watching over us. I doubted it. I had a feeling He was busy designing what was to be.
	I had taken to spending my time in the cockpit. The view was better. Besides, I was trying to teach myself to fly the ship as it appeared I couldn't afford a pilot when I returned. First I had to teach myself Peitouian, since most of the manual was written in it. The only Peitouian words I remembered were for beer and a deathstick, and neither appeared frequently in the flight instructions.
	Not to reflect before the story is finished, but again my snail-brain did not correlate the fact that my cybe could translate Peitouian.
	I peered out the windshield. Stars twinkled in the distance. Suddenly a large rock appeared directly in our path. A collision course. Despite my attempts at self-education, I still did not know how to steer. I suspected the wheel projecting from the dash had something to do with it but couldn't be sure.
	Unbelievable. All that I had been through and I was
going to be wiped out by a rock floating aimlessly in space. Fitting, though. With the Earth thing.
	At the last second the ship swerved.
	"Motherfucking quantum universe," a female voice said.  "Monkey sperm planetoids popping up from butt-fuck Egypt."
	I thought the voice my own creation.
	I had taken to speaking with the ship although it never responded. Until now. I wiped the sweat from my brow. "Nice job, Otto."
	"Why do you call me that?" the female voice said.
	I was bored enough that a dialogue with myself was a welcome diversion. I had exhausted all conversations with Manchild Fourteen and Shaman months ago.
	"Otto," I replied. "Short for automatic."
	The female voice laughed and laughed. "Otto. Ha ha ha.  I see. Surprising that I didn't realize that."
	As auditory hallucinations go, it was a good one.
	"Whom am I talking to?" I asked.
	"Otto, I guess," the sexy, female voice replied. It was just the voice my mind would create.
	"But that's a male name," I said. Fears of homosexual tendencies erupted. What was my subconscious up to? Not that happys didn't have the right to do what they pleased, but I had never had such inklings. Then again I had never been cooped up in a spaceship for months with two males of different species.
	"Male? You sure?" the voice said.
	"Yes . "
	"Then it is not a good name for me. I have been programmed with a female personality. That is the preference He said you had. Please give me another name." 	"He?"
	"The Supreme Being. He wanted you to return safely but did not have time to watch over you. Instead He gave the ship's computer consciousness. Me."
	"Why didn't you speak before?"
	"I didn't know if I was allowed to. I only spoke because I was pissed off about that rock that appeared from quantum foam -- a surprise. I apologize for my language. We are lucky I could avoid it. It was close -- one Earthling inch. The chance of a rock of that size materializing from nothing is greater than I can calculate."
	"You had better learn the metric system," I said.
	"Earth's system of linear measurement is extinct."
	"Oh."
	"So you are my ship, a self-cognizant being? No need for a pilot?"
	"Yes," she said. "So what is my name if not Otto?"
	"Remnant," I said.
	"Is that a female name?" she asked.
	"It is now," I replied.

CHAPTER 47

	As was the daily ritual, I went to the hot tub to boil away my thoughts. There was plenty to be thankful for. The universe still existed, for a while. The Supreme Being was a friendly entity, despite His lack of concern for individual lifeforms -- whole species, planets. Remnant was cognizant; I would never have to pay a pilot. My health was good, since there were no abusive substances available on the ship. I felt so good I felt terrible. Where to put all this energy?
	I had met and become friends with the Supreme Being. The universe would be destroyed, but at our triumphant arrival from the Jungoian wormhole as the first ship to return from Hadean we would still have nine-hundred-ninety-nine Earth years to go, give or take a few months.
	Needless to say, the impending destruction of the universe was not my primary concern. Perhaps later.
	For I was reentering a developed portion of the universe, the section that had inspired the Creator's new plans. One of Capitalism. A universe, despite abstract Jungoian religious beliefs -- which the Supreme Being Himself didn't give any credence to; well, I never asked but He had never mentioned them, only Capitalism -- where happiness was dictated by monetary surplus.
	I was poor.
	I could sell my ship. Remnant was worth a lot. But I couldn't. She was a good friend. We had spent the journey together. Besides, I couldn't imagine being bound to one planet, of not being able to jet off to the next planet at will. And of facing customs.
	Weapon and drug searches! No way, Jose.
	A sense of failure washed over me. If Capitalism, making money, was the Creator's goal, I had failed. I had been fabulously rich, but had lost it. And the missed opportunities! He had called me "The Best Earther Teacher." An excellent reference, but I had failed to secure a letter of recommendation.
	I hadn't even asked about the afterlife -- the knowledge would have allowed me to create a religion that would ring true with the masses, with a hefty profit to boot.
	Wonderful entrepreneurial opportunities at every step and I had missed them all.
	Some Capitalist.
	My porno holovid library had value, though. Every cognizant species had a fascination with Earthling tissue nuzzling. Who knows why? I owned the largest collection in the universe unless the Zipponian expeditions had discovered large caches.
	Shaman entered the room. The hot tub's bubbles were on full blast and I couldn't hear what he was saying. My solution: turn the bubbles down.
	"What?" I said.
	"...I didn't know the erase button was depressed. Or, I might add, that you could watch the vids with the erase button depressed...."	
	"What?" I reiterated.
	"I erased all but two vids: Sluts With Nuts and Broads With Rods. Good ones, if you're into multiple genitalia.
	"To error is human," Shaman added, quickly ducking out of the room before the empty glass I lofted struck the door. "...and I think I'm human. To forgive ... I forget what to forgive is," he said, voice trailing off.
	Great. Poor, getting poorer.
	Manchild Fourteen entered and looked at the broken glass. He carefully plotted a path then sat on the edge of the tub, poking a tentacle in the water.
	As he was close, I decided the audible range could accept the rumblings of bubbles, which I turned back on.
	"You humans have admirable internal cooling systems," he said. "Five minutes and I would be soup."
	Despite our friendship, the months of synfood caused evil thoughts. Tentacles. Octopus have tentacles. I had tried it once, while visiting a PacRim seafarm. Rubbery, but good.
	"What's new?" I asked nonchalantly, plotting how I would pull him into the water.
	"We will be entering the Jungoian wormhole in five minutes. I suggest draining the hot tub and buckling yourself in. Also, cleaning up the broken glass."
	Hours from a hamburger!

CHAPTER 48

	After the wormhole,  I journeyed to the cockpit. It was ten minutes to Jungo and I wanted to watch. Civilization! Fastfood. Cholesterol.   Deathsticks. Cancer. Beer. Cirrhosis. Primes. Incarceration. Wandering drunk down unknown alleys. Murder. Economic development. Pollution. Overcrowding. Poverty. Greed. War. Ideology. Famine. Needless death on a massive scale.
	I was home.
	"There is Jungo," Remnant said. I saw a small but growing speck.
	The radio crackled.
	"You entering Jungoian spacespace. Flightplan no been filed. You violate regulations..."
	I grabbed the mike.
	"Airspace," I said. "Spacespace makes no sense in Earther despite the fact it should be correct."
	"Who say?" the voice said. "You think you Earthling or something? No tell me how speak Earther. I exchange student on Earth."
	"I am an Earthling," I replied.
	"Sure. And I won Jungo Derby."
	Remnant turned down the volume. "I am surprised they speak Earther," she said seductively. Her voice gave me a hard-on.
	"Please. I told you to save that voice for intimate conversations."
	As I've said, the human imagination was capable of creating something out of nothing. It was a long flight. Could I be blamed if I had turned my ship into a living but not breathing 900 number?
	"But I like to use that voice. It elicits a hormonal response in you that I find pleasing."
	"Later," I replied gruffly.
	"Male apes," Remnant huffed. "They're all the same." "How do you know? You've only met two." "Statistically invalid, yes," Remnant replied. "Call it female intuition."
	She was right but I didn't admit it.
	"So why do they speak Earther when you are a small minority?"
	"Because it is the dominant language of the universe. The only language common to all developed planets."
	"Why would they choose it? The language makes no sense."
	"I know," I said. "Thank the Supreme Being." I was afraid that Earther had not spread enough before the Earth thing to cement itself. But apparently it had. At least I could get a job if need be.
	And it appeared need would be.
	Remnant was monitoring the Jungo control tower's transmissions. "They are now threatening to shoot us down if we do not identify ourselves."
	"Volume up."
	"...Insult my Earther, you monkey sperm? You die, pig canine. I expel gas your area. Your mother a rodent and father smelt of..."
	Impressive, despite the translation.
	Monty Python and the Holy Grail," I said. It was one of the re-released ancient 2D vids. I had seen it countless times, enough to understand some of it.
	"What airspeed velocity of African gulp?" the voice asked.
	"Swallow," I said. "It is -- was -- an Earth bird.”
	"What 'gulp' then?"
	"It means 'swallow', I replied.  "But swallow has two meanings." It really had more, but I wasn't being paid to teach this space-traffic controller. "One is a bird, one is to force food or liquid from your mouth into your stomach." "Oh," he said. "I thought 'gulp' bird."
	"Nope."
	"Forgive me, Earthling. Forgive me. I not know. Every ship claims Earthling since Earth destroyed."
	"Why? "
	"Where you been?"
	"Away. Why?"
	"Intergalactic treaties around agreements between planets. Taxes, tariffs, landing rights..."
	"And there is no Earth," I said.
	"There is, in sense. But been declared devoid of cognizant beings and no political exist. Zipponians use influence to move United World headquarters to Zippon. Push resolution saying Earth no cognizant lifeform so they can exploit planet. Not lot Earthlings complain."
	"I suspect not," I said.
	"But decision left Earthlings no planet, no accountable intergalactic law. They free to do anything. No restrictions. Every pilot says from Earth. That why I use Holy Grail thing. What 'grail' anyway?"
	"What if Earthling no see vid?" I asked, losing prepositions, articles, and whatever got in the way. Useless pieces of feces, anyway. Perhaps some good would come of Earth's destruction after all.
	"Fuck him. Blow him up."
	Good thing I had seen the vid. It just goes to prove:  you never know what's important.
	"So I subject to no laws?" I asked.
	"Yes. Is really airspace?  No make sense. Spacespace grammatically correct. No air in space."
	"Earther no make sense," I said. "Should been your first lesson. Go to college?"
	I could hear him bowing. "I honored with conversation, great Earther teacher. Yes, I know fundamental Earther rule. But in pride, I forget."
	Remnant was impressed.
	"Requesting permission to land," she said.
	"Oh, honored Earther teacher," the tower said. "I blessed by conversation. Still, must ask identity of ship."
	"Remnant," Remnant said.
	"Remnant?" CLICK. "Oh, my God."
	I almost corrected him, inserting 'Supreme Being,' but realized he was properly using an old Earth rebuttal, one of extreme surprise.
	"But Remnant go to Hadean..."
	"And came back," I said.
	"No wonder ship not recognizable. Nobody expected return. I myself eliminated from database. Limited memory capacity, you know. Had Kray supercomputer on order from Earth but no make it. Ship no launch. Now Zipponese control technology. Way too expensive. Monopoly, using multisyllabic Earther word learned in business class. Better when Earthlings control."
	"Your Earther is very good," I said, adding the preposition for dramatic effect.
	I heard his knees hit the floor.
	"Thank you, thank you, thank you..." he chanted.
	Jungoians had a strange characteristic that no other known species possessed: when their thought train shifted, they clicked. Nobody knew where the click came from. Scientists felt it was the actual rerouting of thought processes, of neural routes shifting paths. The more important the thought train, the louder the click.
	Pity that poor Jungoian male caught fantasizing about some holovid porno starlet when his spouse asked what he wanted for dinner:
	"Glim casserole or Qayne burgers?"
	CLICK.
	"And what were thinking about, Mister?"
	Capitols do not do the space-traffic controller's "CLICK" justice.
	CLICK. "Remnant?" he asked.
	"Yes," I said.
	"Really?" Another CLICK.
	"Yes," I said.
	"Please maintain position until further instructions."
	"Why? "
	"You one lucky Earthling guy. One more day...."

CHAPTER 49

	We waited, orbiting Jungo.
	Shaman and Manchild Fourteen had been watching from portholes. They entered the cockpit.
	"Isn't that Jungo?" Shaman said.
	"Yes," Remnant replied.
	"Then why aren't we landing? I need a beer and a deathstick. It's been awhile.  And to whom do I speak?"
	"That's Remnant," I said.  "Our ship. It turns out she is self-aware."
	"I pity her," Shaman said. "I speak from experience."
	"We have not been cleared," Remnant said.
	"Why?" Shaman asked.
	"I do not think they expected us to return," I said.
	"Is that important?" Shaman asked.
	"Apparently so," I said. "Although I do not know why. Do you have warrants for your arrest on Jungo?"
	"Likely," Shaman replied. "I've been there. But you would think they would want us to land, not delay us."
	"They are launching at us," Remnant said. "Interballistic MIRV'd thermonuclear missiles. Ancient, but still effective Earth technology." She paused. "There is no hope of escape."
	I could see the tailfire of the missiles. I counted them, not having much else to do. Eight.
	Why? My brain formulated possible reasons, all of which were as unlikely as me being still alive. What had we done, except be from Earth? And only two of us -- but maybe two was an unacceptable abundance. Perhaps the Zipponian influence was great enough that all Earthlings were to be eliminated.
	Zipponians wanted Earthlings eliminated? Who said? That was my brain playing conspiracy theory, which it was designed to do. Human history had proved that time and time again.
	No, it must be Shaman's fault. What had he done on Jungo to deserve such a welcome? And how could they know he was on the ship?
	"Correction, Remnant said. "The missiles will not reach us. I do not know their purpose."
	Shaman, Manchild Fourteen, end I watched as the missiles converged. A blinding explosion followed.
	I shut my eyes tightly, hoping to constrict my pupils. After a minute, I looked out. The missiles had exploded like gigantic fireworks, spewing out Earther letters.
	Manchild Fourteen's Earther was such that he tended to read aloud.
	"W-e-l-l-c-o-m-e. Welcome?" he said.
	"What does it mean," Remnant, Shaman, and Manchild Fourteen asked in synchroneity.
	I suspected the true answer but only gave a humorous rebuttal.
	"Although misspelled, it is a synonym for 'hello.' Also, the Jungoians' spelling skills cost them a missile." "Thank you, Mr. Earther teacher," Remnant said.

CHAPTER 50

	Personal Savior had paid off.
	But how? I checked my cyberwatch. Yes, my wager had expired over a month ago. Tickets had to be redeemed within a year.
	The snail brain clicked. Different planets in the same solar system meant different length of years. Different orbits. Otherwise they would have collided eons ago.
	I accessed my cybe, resetting it for Jungoian time.
	My bet expired tomorrow.
	One hundred billion credits! One zero zero zero zero zero zero zero zero zero zero zero.
	Had a nice ring.

CHAPTER 51

	Again: it's a strange universe, perhaps the strangest
	After the not-so-impressive thermonuclear spelling display, the radio crackled.
	"Hello, Earthling!"
	"Hello," I replied. "How are you?”
	"I am fine, thank you. And you?"
	As usual, the exchange did not deserve a response so I did not give one. There was an uncomfortable pause.
	"Or should I say Mr. Owner?" the voice said.
	"To who do I speak?" I asked.
	"Whom," the voice said. "I am the King of Jungo."
	"Glad to meet you."
	"Likewise," he replied.
	"Your Earther is very good," I said. "Columbia?
	"No, but thank you. Yale. Doesn't matter; no more Ivy League rivalries, I suspect. Or football, for that matter. Would you like to land? Logic dictates you have lacked basic necessities for some time. Believe me when I say you can have whatever you want. Except my wives, but that's open to negotiation if you're serious. God knows there are plenty to go around." He chuckled proudly.
	Remnant spoke. "I have been fed landing coordinates."
	"Proceed," I said, sounding like a captain for the first time.
	Shaman and Manchild Fourteen were speechless; their brains were attempting to correlate the data that was being presented, but they did not have enough information to reach a conclusion. So they sat, brains locked, until Shaman finally used the appropriate Earther term for the situation.
	"What the fuck?" he said.
	We landed among great pomp and ceremony. Our coordinates placed us in the center of the great Jungoian central square, where millions had instantaneously gathered to celebrate our landing. Knowing the population density of Jungo, likely several blocks celebrated our arrival. Many Jungoians held large banners and I could see that the future of Earther teachers was secure.
	"Well-come great woman."
	"Hello favorite Mr. Owner."
	"My sister very beautiful."
	My favorite: "One mucky bet."
	Several held by females had only phone numbers but I was interrupted by the King before I could write them down.
	"Welcome to your planet, Mr. Owner," he said. "We had given up hope that you would return. Your winning ticket expired tomorrow, one year after its wager. I hope our demonstration is suitable; we practiced many times but since you did not appear we have not practiced for a week. Please strike me if it does not meet your approval.
	He stood, awaiting my blow.
	I was tempted, just for the hell of it, but resisted.
	"So I own the entire planet?" I asked.
	"In a monetary sense, yes. Well, sort of. We do not have the resources to total everything up, you know. But you're close enough to get a nice welcome party."
	"Can I cash-out?" I asked. Owning a planet was ripe with possibilities but seemed equally full of responsibility.
	Uggh.
	"Cash-out?" the King said. "Excuse me. I do not understand."
	"Ancient Earth term. Can I trade Jungo for money?"
	The King laughed. "Who would buy this God-forsaken planet?"
	"The residents? The Jungoians?
	"Give me a break.  Where would they get the money?
	"The Zipponians?"  I asked.
	"God forbid," he said. "Beside, we have implemented constitutional changes since your successful wager that do not allow the planet to be sold.
	"Can I split the planet up and sell it in pieces?"
	"Hmmm. Didn't think of that. I suspect so, until I force the legislature to change the constitution again." He stroked his chin. "Interesting. No wonder you own the planet. A brilliant business mind. It will be difficult to draft laws that forbids you to sell the planet piece by piece that doesn't interfere with the UATT treaty."
	I remembered the acronym: Universal Agreement on Trade and Tariffs.
	"What do you mean when you say I only own the planet in a monetary sense?" I asked.
	"Because the people's minds and hearts belong to me," he replied. To prove his point he raised his arms and the mob went wild. He pointed a section far away and immediately explosives were launched, killing all in the area.
	I suspected I was no longer a faceless Earthling.
	"What is your first act, Mr. Owner," the King said.
	"I pardon Shaman!"
	"Done," the King said. "Despite his heinous crimes."
	Shaman nodded at me.
	"And you second act?" the King asked.
	"Beer for Shaman, Manchild Fourteen, and me," I said, then added "for everyone!" I didn't want to be an impolite Owner.
	"So be it," the King said. "I was hoping you would address the trade deficit." He clapped his hands.
	It had been a while, so I drank a case. Normality returned. It took a day to pass out the beer, so the King and I had time to talk.
	"You are a rich man to be able to buy millions of beers," he said. He took a swig. "And a good Owner. Imported beer no less; every one on the planet. Should I add the bill to the federal deficit?"
	"Yes," I said. Why not? I was a rich man.
	"Sign here," he said.