In Search of a Dramatic Ending

“Just when was the last time you were in this part of the ship?” G5 inquires. They already know the answer, but G5, ever the data analyst, just needs to make sure.

The crew wanders through a vast catacombs-like section of the ship. Each wears a white hard hat with a light on the top and the Arch and Key emblem of The Keystone State on its side.

“Well,” Rochester hesitates. “It’s been a while. I don’t quite recognize quite where we are. This dismal place will give gloom a good name.”

“What’s he got to do with it?” ask the DeeGees. They’re thinking of Billy Bob Gloom, famous Romance author and rapper, several of whose books the DeeGees modeled for the cover, and whose music videos they danced in.

Rochester has wandered off into the murky shadows and doesn’t answer, apparently not hearing the question. The DeeGees look around, headlamps casting triangular shapes into the dank murk. No one is visible.

Music from the Julia Roberts Shrine can be heard in the distance.

“Where’d everybody go?” the littlest Dancing Girl says. Their simul-speak has broken down. A sound of water dripping echoes around them.

A sound of something skipping across the floor and the Biggest Dancing girl jumps back. “Ow! I kicked something.”

The three of them start looking around on the floor, their lights crossing and uncrossing.

“Look at this.” The Middle Sized Dancing Girl holds up a round cylinder as she stands from kneeling down. The cylinder is about two inches in diameter and a foot long. It is embossed with strange flowing script and Golden Runes. They stand in a huddle staring at it. The Middle Sized Girl looks it over, and grasps one end.

“I think it unscrews,” she says and starts to twist the end.

“Don’t open that!” comes a sudden commanding voice, filled with dark undertones of ancient arcane knowledge.

The DeeGees jump in shock in unison and turn towards the voice. “Who’s there?” they ask, simul-speak returning with a hint of breathless anxiety.

A light flashes in the distance, as if a door opening and closing. They look around and suddenly their lights are filled with the horrific countenance of Grundebar, the ancient vampire turned vegetarian. He’s looking a little lean, but creepy as always.

The DeeGees try to maintain their ultra-cool DeeGeeNess, that hip and with-it urbanity that has brought them such renown. But their lights start to show a slight shakiness, and they all step back as one when Grundebar steps forward.

“Perhaps you better give me that,” Grundebar says, gently offering his hand, and gesturing for the cylinder. “One never knows what strange mischief one may encounter.”

The Middle Sized Dancing Girl slowly reaches out her hand and cautiously drops the cylinder into Grunderbar’s hand.

There’s a sudden clang, as if someone has dropped a large wrench onto a metal plate. They all look around.

“Hey, where’d he go?” the Littlest Dancing Girl says.

“Where’d who go?”

The DeeGees jump in the air at the sound of a voice behind them and turn around whipping out a wide variety of deadly weapons.

“Whoa, there,” Rochester says. “It’s just me.”

“Where have you been? We found a Secret Manuscript! Grundebar acted like it was his.” This was not simul-speak, but each of the three says something different all at the same time. They stop and look suspiciously at each other. This is highly unusual behavior for the DeeGees.

A large white rabbit hops across the scene in between the DeeGees and Rochester. They watch it hop off into the creepy murkiness.

Rochester stares after the rabbit, a vague disquiet forming in his gut, but asks about what the Girls said. “I haven’t been anywhere, been here the whole time, what Secret Manuscript? Grundebar was here?”

“Grundebar was ver?” Ivan says. They all turn to him.

“Where have you been?” Rochester says. “I’ve been looking all over for you and G5.”

G5 walks around from behind Ivan. “Right here, Bozz. Been here all along.”

“Well, I was just discussing with the DeeGees,” Rochester says and turns back to the girls, but they are gone. A small tangle of blond hair floats to the ground in the light of his headlamp.

“Nobody move!” Rochester says and signals to everyone to stay in one place. Too late he realizes that there is nobody around to hear him.

Loud cackling laughter echoes around Rochester, circling him like some kind of dark malevolent Fiend from Hell, or a Republican candidate for President.

It suddenly strikes Rochester with brilliant realization that he is trapped in the theoretical sub-blog space, that often predicted but never proven sub-dimensional space where good writers become hacks, facts become speculation, opinions become viral, cliche is SOP, and any posting written at any time can suddenly without warning overlap into one from the future or the past or the present. This strange void underlying the reality of the SuperGalactic Internet is the Holy Grail of bloggers for the implied power it opens up.

“No, I didn’t,” Rochester says, suddenly realizing that he answered a voice that was describing his situation. “I didn’t realize it until you explained it.”

Rochester doesn’t appear to realize that sub-blog non-dimensional space violates all the rules of physics, literature, common sense and manners and that he is suddenly conversing with the Omniscient Narrator of the blog.

“No, need to be condescending,” Rochester says. “I’m standing right here, and I understand very well what sub-blog space is all about, I know just who I’m talking to, though I have some doubts about your manners.”

Don’t blame me, I’m not actually a person, I’m a point of view.

“Okay, so let’s discuss this like gentlemen,” Rochester suggests.

I’m listening.

“Straighten this mess out or I will kick your ass from here to Brooklyn,” Rochester says with his eyes narrowed.

There is a long pause, as if reality itself were realigning. Rochester rolls his eyes and shakes his head with dismay.

Suddenly the entire team, except for Rover, reappears, talking amongst themselves about the other blog postings to which they were so suddenly transported. Rover doesn’t get broken out of jail until the next blog posting.

The whole team turns quiet, and turns to Rochester. “Ahh, Dear, who is that voice?” Alice asks. Everybody else nods, they want to know also, but let Alice speak for them.

“Well, let’s just talk about that later.” Rochester extemporizes hoping that in the excitement he doesn’t actually have to explain who he was talking to.

This comment brings a great many strange looks over the team members, and Alice especially gives a narrowed glare to Rochester. Rochester realizes that as long as they are trapped in sub-blog space, the Omniscient Narrator is suddenly someone to be taken seriously indeed.

The crew looks at each other realizing the nature of their situation and a wild variety of thoughts cascade through their heads and odd looks cross their faces as the Omniscient Narrator considers whose mental state to discuss next. Heh, heh, heh.

“Okay, let’s just quietly walk backwards the same way we came in,” Rochester says, and they all follow his lead, walking back the way they came, which the DeeGees handily marked with a trail of bread crumbs. Which is normally Rover’s job, but he’s in jail.

There is a loud popping bubble breaking sound, and they reappear in the Rec Center.

“Well, this is not exactly where we started from, but close enough,” Rochester says.

“Speak for yourself, Big Guy, I’m half-way across the Galaxy from the Library,” Alice says a wee bit ticked.

“Me too,” Ivan says.

“As long as you’re here, let’s have dinner,” Rochester says to Alice.

They all stand for a moment waiting for some Omniscient Narrative summary but hearing nothing, return to whatever highly important stuff they were doing before being sucked into the sub-blog void.

Everyone nods knowingly. This sounds like they’re making progress at last. Heh, heh, heh…

You could describe the tavern as rat-infested if you could find any rats so down on their luck and lacking in their self-esteem that they would lower themselves to infesting this stinking mess of spilled booze, sour grapes, and moldy, half-alive piles of crap swept into the corners. It’s the kind of place that working class sentients populate when they run out of luck, out of money, and out of friends.
 
Even the voice of the omniscient narrator (that’s me) starts to tighten and snarl at the litany of lowlifers, miscreants, and malefactors crowding around gambling tables, smoking a wild variety of malodorous plants, swigging on mugs of gut scorching distillates, gabbling in a wide assortment of languages, and engaging in activities both cliché, vulgar, and immoral. The Julia Roberts Shrine, found in all corners of modern civilization, is just a decrepit, broken-down mess, barely holding itself together in the corner.
 
Rochester takes in the scene from a dark corner, back in the back, away from the tables, where the smoke thins out, and he is two steps away from the hall that leads to the rear exit. Rochester’s been around the galaxy once or twice, and blends in easily, wearing an old grey hoodie (he borrowed from G5) smoking a cheap brand of cigars, not his usual fine Cuban seed tobacco. He sits in a booth, leaning up against the back wall, legs crossed feet up on the bench, watching the tavern.
 
He’s drinking a bottle of some nondescript beer into which he casually dropped a powerful anti-everything powder to counteract the alcohol and whatever other nasty bits and scraps might be floating or otherwise contaminating the drink. Now if they could just do something about the taste.
 
The hoodie is a high-tech special that G5 has been working on, a combination of moth-eaten old rag and hi-tech composite materials that are both shielding for the mobile nano-electronics interlaced within the threading, and high-velocity impact resistant, and strongly anti-blackware. There is nothing like it in the KNOWN GALAXY and when Rochester heard G5 talking about it to Ivan, Rochester immediately suggested a field test.
 
Rochester carries a small dart launcher as his only weapon, other than his Martial Arts skills, which is something easily hidden and effective in a wide variety of situations. Even the 4 armed alien thug at the door was unable to find the launcher when he patted Rochester down after he paid his outrageous cover charge.
 
Rochester keeps the hoodie up, not just because it keeps his face in shadow, and that’s how most of the crowd looks, but because the HVAC is broken and runs all-out hot or freezing cold. Right now small puffs of condensation mix into the smoke from his cigar as he breathes out into the frigid air.
 
There’s something kind of stimulating about hanging out with a bunch of low-lifers in a bleak forsaken and dismal dive in the middle of a space station at the edges of the Empire, kind of like visiting Omaha. Rochester blends in and could be taken for just another off-duty spacer, though slightly taller and more athletic of build.

He’s relaxed and alert, calm, and in other circumstances, he would be enjoying himself. He waits patiently for his contact to show up, not at all sure if this meeting was a good idea, but willing to take the risk to gather whatever information he can on recent events.
 
Some sentients sell other sentients, some sell contraband of one kind or another, and some, like this fellow, commit a wide variety of criminal activities, including one of which he is the best at, which is selling information. Of the various types, the information brokers are far away the most expensive, the most secretive, and typically jumpy and nervous.
 
Their lives are nothing for the many who suffer from the information that they sell into the hands of the many that use it for evil. Theirs is a precarious existence, even here, where all lives are short, brutish, and generally lacking in good bodily hygiene, manners and vocabulary. The best brokers make an exorbitant living, and the worst, well, let’s just say their scattered body parts are difficult to discover, were one so inclined to seek them out.
 
Rochester’s good spirits help him review in his mind all the recent mishaps and misfortunes. Rover remains incarcerated, they are no closer to identifying the attacker on the ship, and peace remains running rampant around the Galaxy, like an old geezer who doesn’t know when it’s time to head off to the retirement home.
 
G5 and the DeeGees are just down the block in an abandoned warehouse, passively monitoring the situation. Ivan remains at the jail keeping Rover company, as Rover’s ordeal begins to wear him down.

The DeeGees stand ready to shift into assault team mode on any signal from Rochester. Today is serious business and they wear full assault team armor, though we have to admit even in full black body armor and helmets with shields, they still cut a stylish path. But trust me when I say this, you don’t want to be on the receiving end of a DeeGees assault team attack, stylish though it may be.
 
The tavern is ramshackle, and that’s being generous, but it does have a decent set of security monitors, nothing really that would even slow down G5, but Rochester is cautious. If the information broker has anything good to sell, and that’s a long if, Rochester wants to make sure that he doesn’t get spooked and depart the scene, or worse, destroy what evidence he may have. They are keeping a low security profile.
 
A scantily clad 4 armed silver blue alien waitress stomps up to his table, with speckles of gray shiny sequins glued on her body in various interesting places, and she picks up Rochester’s mug, and slams it down, splashing out some liquids onto the tabletop. Just her way of asking if he wants anything else.

Rochester tosses her some coinage, which she catches with her two lower hands, while holding a tray with one of the uppers over her shoulder. She signals okay with her remaining hand, and winks with two of her four eyes.
 
Rochester is uncertain if that is an alien come-on or not, but she doesn’t hang around to pursue the matter, whirling away into the crowd, to be replaced by none other than Rochester’s old nemesis, Slip Bridgery.
 
Slip slides onto the bench opposite Rochester, holding a mug that emits a slow fizzling mist of some kind, and carefully places it on the table. Slip smiles. Rochester moves to drop his feet onto the floor, facing across to the other bench.

Rochester has worked for years to get this close to Bridgery, and now here he is at last, and he has to honor his word to take no action. Rochester struggles with throwing a roundhouse haymaker at Bridgery, and manages to hold back his understandable compulsion.
 
“Well, Rochester, not in all my years would I have guessed that you would come to me for help.” Slip doesn’t attempt pleasantries. He smiles under his derby, his red hair tucked back in a ponytail. He wears an old country gentleman’s tweed suit, with a scarf nattily tied around his neck.
 
“You’re a man of many talents, Bridgery, all of them anti-social, but I’m willing to admit that sometimes your talents may show their worth. Depends on the quality of your information.” Rochester manages to get this out without too much growling.
 
“Well, tentative compliments from the SuperGalactic Hero Known Around the Galaxy. Impressive.” Slip holds his hands together at the knuckles and taps his thumbs together. An old habit.

“Well, I suppose this pains you no end, though it amuses me, so I am of two minds whether we should get down to business or drink and swap old war stories. We have, after all, been playing the game for many years, you and I. We should take advantage of this truce to compare notes.”
 
Rochester snorts. “Let’s get down to business. I don’t want to get warm and fuzzy. I want to get to the bottom of things.”
 
“I have to admit that for once I am in complete agreement, Rochester.” Slip says this casually while sliding a piece of paper onto the table, while ostensibly picking up a napkin to wipe his mouth. “This whole affair you are enduring has given me cause for worry.”

“If, just for the sake of argument,” Slip continues, “This unknown assailant were to best you, whatever would become of the way things are? I like the way things are, and I am afraid that having someone of such obvious talents, someone who can best you in a game of wit and strategy, something that even I have not been able to do, could make life difficult for me.”
 
Rochester has the paper in his hand and glances at it quickly. “Yes, it could produce a radical restructuring in the politics and economy of the Galaxy, but how would that be more difficult for you?”
 
“Competition, Rochester, competition. I have worked hard to be number One. I don’t take to rivals kindly.” And the last was spoken with some vehemence, for Slip is known for a nasty temper and doesn’t take kindly to someone moving in on his turf.
 
Rochester snorts again. “This is twice what we agreed upon.” The paper goes up in a small puff of smoke in Rochester’s hand. Oddly enough, this seems completely commonplace in this tavern.
 
Slip merely smiles. “You’re good for it, and I have a reputation to maintain after all.”
 
Slip slides off the bench and stands up.
 
“What about our deal?” Rochester says about to grab him before he gets away.
 
Slip nods towards Rochester’s hand. “In the ash. I’m waiting for notification of transfer of funds.”
 
Rochester doesn’t even move. Slip has some kind of advanced communications, and so does Rochester, but neither is willing to give anything away.

Rochester knows that G5 received the go ahead that Rochester just sent via elbow pressure on the appropriate spot in the fabric he wears. The microdot of information media left in the ash in Rochester’s hand, starts downloading through the hoodie.
 
Rochester gets a small red beacon in the side of his vision, an acknowledgement that G5 has the data and it looks good, and that funds have been transferred securely.
 
Slip nods. “Nice doing business with you, Rochester. Perhaps we can meet again under different circumstances, and share a decent cold beer.”

He taps the brim of his derby with a two finger salute. “Be seeing you,” and without another word disappears into the crowd, true to his name and faster than Rochester can keep track.
 
Rochester puts out his cigar on the tabletop, just another burn scar amongst many, leaves an extravagant tip, and heads out. It’s time to see if the new info will lead them somehow to the Secret Dark Nemesis.

The Keystone State is a BIG Ship. Some chroniclers have described it as a Space City, or even its own sub-directorate in the Bureaucracy of the Empire. Attempts to map or itemize or catalog the ship fail simply because it is dynamic, constantly changing, in shape, function, crew and vast cornucopia of stuff. Not unlike the typical suburbanite’s two car garage.

This afternoon, Rochester strolls the aisles, showrooms, and exhibits in the Royal SuperGalactic SpaceFlight Institute and Museum that takes up one large section of the ship. He enjoys meandering through the vast collection of spacecraft from races from all over the KNOWN GALAXY. It’s a place for Rochester to let his imagination wander, a place where he goes to think about problems, to work over those things that a SuperGalactic Hero has to work through on his own. He faces a terrible situation.

They have made no progress on their search for the Evil Perpetrator (Rochester has started thinking of the phrase in Capital letters) of the Rec Room attack. They believe but haven’t been able to prove that the same person is behind the frame-up of Rover. Rover languishes in jail, behind bars, his spirit withering, longing to roam the open prairies, not to mention to cruise the InterGalactic Spaceways kicking bad guy butt.

Ivan does his best to console the wooly mammoth, and the DeeGees have exhausted themselves doing cheers, but the shock of the arrest and accusations wears on Rover. He barely eats six bales of hay a day, and his hair is starting to fall out.

Rochester is left with one last unofficial channel of investigation. There is one person in the KNOWN GALAXY that is even more connected than the Julia Roberts Shrine. But Rochester hesitates, unwilling to step over that final line, the line that desperation drives even a SuperGalactic Hero to cross. But the sheer depth of compromised integrity that it means, makes Rochester face a tough call.

So he walks the Space Museum and considers all the races that have braved the heavens, seeking the dangers and finding the inspirations that come with space travel. He hopes for some kind of way to resolve his internal conflict.

He hears soft footfalls come up behind him.

He chuckles. “I know those footsteps anywhere,” he says and turns around.

Now the sight that greets Rochester would be one to make a commonplace powerful fighting man cringe and bend over to protect his vital parts, but for Rochester it’s just another day at the office.

In front of him is the 8 legged body of a gigantic hairy spider like lifeform with a face-like end of the body pointing towards Rochester. This is creature is Michelangelo, the Curator of the Museum. His anthropomorphic “face” has 8 eyes and a one foot mouth with a pair of crunching mandibles on each side.

Michelangelo’s race populates a solar system at the outskirts of the Empire around a dim red star called Z-alpha-WS, which is an old Human Mining Corporation designation, which the spider dudes never bothered to change. The Zalphaws are one of the few races to fail to embrace the Julia Roberts Shrine. When pressed on the issue, they just shrug and mumble something about the predator / prey instinct.

Otherwise the Zalphaws are entirely friendly and have become one of the most highly regarded races in all the Empire’s diplomatic circles. They just don’t get invited to very many parties.

Michelangelo’s private collection of spacecraft that he collected over many centuries (they live a really long time) forms the core of the Museum. He has made a special study of the history of spaceflight across the KNOWN GALAXY and made a name in scholarly circles for his numerous historical writings. He has become semi-retired and curating the museum has made him a happy spider.

Michelangelo and Rochester have a standing agreement. Rochester is allowed to visit the Museum any time he wants without an appointment, and Michelangelo is allowed to try and sneak up on Rochester and jump him.

One might think that a spider that stands 4 feet off the ground at the shoulders (and chroniclers disagree over just where the “shoulder” on a Zalphaws actually is) would make some kind of noise when moving but the members of his species have an innate ability for stealth. The only real noise they make is when they drop onto their unsuspecting prey from the ceiling to suck out its bodily fluids. Sort of like Newt Gingrich.

Rochester insists that he can hear the footfalls of a Zalphaws and so far Michelangelo has not been able to prove him wrong. But he keeps trying.

Michelangelo laughs along with Rochester. “Cigar?” Rochester asks.

The somewhat incongruous sight of a giant spider smoking a cigar and talking to a SuperGalactic Hero is not something that everyone gets to see and you readers of the blog should consider yourself lucky.

They smoke in socialable silence for a while, softly strolling through the exhibits. Rochester stop s in front of an ancient five-legged lander, a historical oddity that was found on an asteroid in the old Earth System but no one has ever been able to determine who it belongs to.

Michelangelo is a patient creature and quietly waits, a cloud of smoke wafting upwards.

“As you have already surmised, I have a bit of problem,” Rochester says.

Michelangelo is an avid follower of everything that happens on the ship, and simply bobs his fronting section of his body, in a congenial imitation of a human nod.

“It is difficult to imagine that in this day and age that our biggest problem remains getting accurate information. We have exhausted all our resources, save for one, and I loathe following that path, regardless of the situation.” Rochester returns to silence.

Michelangelo says, “You know that all my resources are yours, and I know that they too have been insufficient. For this I provide you my humblest apologies.”

Rochester nods his understanding.

“But,” Michelangelo goes on, “I do know something about intelligence gathering, and while it may be distasteful, no one will judge you harshly, as long as you take appropriate precautions to avoid making the situation worse.”

“You know that I am a careful man,” Rochester says quietly.

“Indeed, but in this case, perhaps too much so. I presume you are concerned about becoming ensnared in some kind of diabolical side track?”

Rochester nods grimly.

“Based upon my experience over the years, I will venture a guess, that in this one situation, you will find that an old saying has much truth to it.”

Rochester turns to the spider curiously. Michelangelo, while talking to Rochester has been polishing the legs of the lander with his front two legs, which have opposing claws and are quite versatile gripping hands. In fact, Zalphaws are surprisingly ambidextrous.

“What saying is that, Mike?”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I believe that similar sayings are found in a number of races’ history including your own.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Rochester says, a new light coming into his eyes. “Thanks for the insight.”

“Always available for consultation,” Michelangelo bows slightly.

“I’ll be back,” Rochester says.

“Next time I will catch you,” Michelangelo promises.

They enjoy a laugh, Rochester strides off and waves over his shoulder. Michelangelo strolls down the aisles, enjoying his cigar and the museum, an endless source of delight to the old Curator.

As Rochester leaves the Museum, Alice walks up and joins him, apparently just coming to find him.

“Rochester, I’m heading back to the Library,” Alice says without preface or transition.

Rochester keeps walking even though these words are unexpected and make him unhappy. “I can use your help here.”

“Actually, I can be of more value at the Library. Yes, it’s true. The Keystone State is unsurpassed for data processing capabilities, but you have to remember that the ship is just one part of the web that the Library sits at the center of.”

Rochester likes the imagery of the web having just spent time talking with Michelangelo and suspects that Alice doesn’t realize what she just said, but he needs to discuss something else. “That’s not at all what I meant.”

Alice stops walking, forcing Rochester to stop and step back to her. “What in the world do you mean?”

“Go to the Library and do what you do as you only can do it. But remember this, the Galaxy may need you at the Library, but I need you here.”

Alice and Rochester share a deep look of understanding. It is a long moment.

“I think I may be able to arrange for some time off when this is all done,” Alice says, glancing away from Rochester while smiling sadly.

“So with that said, you must be off, and I have someone I must go see,” Rochester says.

Alice nods. They walk off into the ship together for now but soon to go their separate ways again.

The crew has gathered in the Briefing Room in the Computer Center. They’re reviewing the evidence collected against Rover. There is a feeling of gloom and emptiness, if the looks on their faces is any indicator. You might be surprised how much room a Wooly Mammoth takes up in your heart, not to mention the safety zone necessary around his wide swinging tusks.

No one sits in the rows of seats looking down into the display tank. They all stand, shoulder to shoulder; reaching into the display tank and moving documents around and reviewing security monitor recordings.

“It’s damn well about time we got this data. It’s just like Max to drag his feet, if only to frustrate me,” Rochester says grumpily.

No one replies. They know better than to try and interact with Rochester when he’s like this. Alice sighs lightly, she’s not one to sit idly by, and yet the current circumstances seem untenable. The mysteries only seem to deepen and what to do about Rochester? How do you console a Man of Action, a SuperGalactic Hero, when every action seems to lead to dead-ends, or more confusion?

Ivan starts to summarize the conclusions.

“The creature in question,” Ivan refuses even to acknowledge that it might even possibly be a Wooly Mammoth, as Rover is the only known living specimen in the Galaxy. “The creature is constantly leaving half empty cups of Caffee Mocha around the scenes of the crimes. “

“Yep, that sounds like Rover all right.” Rochester says without looking up from the security video he examines. “I can’t count the number of his cold and forgotten Caffee Mocha’s that I’ve picked up and tossed into the recycler.”

A look of consternation passes over Ivan’s face, but he continues. “At least once at each scene of the crime, the creature turns without looking, causing his confederates and cohorts to duck to avoid being smacked by its tusks.”

“Yep, that sounds like Rover all right,” Rochester says. This actually gets a few nods from G5 and the DeeGees. They have all developed highly sensitive tusk avoidance reflexes.

Ivan looks yet more perplexed but continues. “The creature communicates mostly with a grouping of well-modulated grunts and groans with an occasional lengthy soliloquy quoting one of Shakespeare’s tragic heroes.”

“Yep, that sounds like Rover all right,” Rochester says. This one even gets a nod from Alice. How many times has she had to look up the citations that Rover quotes so Rochester can understand the context that Rover refers to?

Ivan can’t stand it any longer. “BOZZ!! YOU NO HELP!!!”

Rochester turns at this outburst. “Just saying, that’s all.”

“I think what Rochester is saying,” G5 begins, “Is that for somebody who is analyzing the evidence without bias that they must admit that that it does seem to point to Rover.”

“But for someone like us,” Alice adds, “Who presumes Rover’s innocence, the evidence points to a well-designed and executed attempt to frame Rover, and probably indirectly cast a shadow not only on Rochester’s reputation but on the rest of us, as well.”

This comment makes the DeeGees start to pout. It’s been several days since they’ve been able to think of anything to cheer about, and the whole thing is just becoming persnickety.

“Well, shoot,” says the littlest Dancing Girl.

“Gosh, darn it,” says the middle sized Dancing Girl.

“Those no good **#*(@Y&%(#*)# bastards,” exclaims the biggest Dancing Girl.

This outburst makes everyone freeze, glance sideways at the DeeGees, and look at each other with great uncertainty. Then they all laugh.

“I believe that summarizes it nicely, my Dear,” Rochester says to the girl.

So the DeeGees do backflips and cartwheels and start cheering and repeating what the biggest Dancing Girl said in a raucous and profane cheer, with some special emphasis on the wrong places, or rather the right places.

Everyone laughs and applauds. Rochester pats the DeeGees on the back, one at a time.

“Dear,” Alice has been waiting for a good time to interrupt. “G5 and I have been running a detailed analysis, and, well.” Alice doesn’t know what to say exactly.

“Bozz,” G5 explains. “Our analysis tried to correlate the recent events with the capabilities and known methodology of all your current and past enemies.”

“It’s quite a list,” Alice says. It actually impressed her, in an intimidating sort of way.

“Well, yes, of course,” Rochester says modestly.

“Hah! Hi get it!” Ivan says looking over the summaries. “Bozz, ve have somevon new.”

Rochester considers this. He walks over to the viewscreen on the sidewall, currently showing random scenes of Julia Roberts Shrines across the KNOWN GALAXY. He considers quietly and slowly.

“Isn’t it interesting how peace and tranquility breaks out at the same time as this apparently new Dark Nemesis appears? Is it coincidence or part of a Grand Scheme?”

Everyone listens, each considering Rochester’s words and starting to realize the depths of the situation they face.

For the first time in his career, Rochester for a few moments thinks that his team might just actually need some help this time.

“Team, I would appreciate if you would continue to examine the evidence. G5, Alice, good analysis, keep it going. DeeGees, I know you’ve already done this, but given our new understanding, perhaps you could inquire…” Rochester doesn’t finish.

The DeeGees stand at attention and salute. “Da, Bozz!! We are on the job!!”

The DeeGees network of Dancing Girls contacts had turned up no information, but a requery is obviously appropriate.

“I’m going to take a walk, and do a little thinking.” Rochester strides up the stairs in the middle of the Briefing Room and leaves.

The crew stands around and looks at each other. He didn’t say it, but they all know what he is considering.

And soon enough so will you…

The Keystone State has received an unexpected and highly unusual communique from the Royal Imperial SuperGalactic Mounted Police. It was cryptic and concise, with simply a request to pull it over and wait for a duly appointed representative of the Crown to rendezvous.

Rochester just shrugs and says in the same manner as the message: “Park it. Wait. I’ll be in my Ready Room.”

An odd mood of expectation and suspense settles over the Command Center. With Rochester reviewing something or other in his Official Boss Hideout Place (his “Ready Room”, a fairly unadorned office just off the Command Center that is typically used by visiting officials), the Command Center seems just less lively and now this mysterious communication from the Mounties.

Not to mention the unresolved stress from the ongoing investigations of the Rec Room visitation and takeover of the ship.

The DeeGees whisper amongst themselves, while Rover, G5 and Ivan scan through recent SuperGalactic News events seeking some clue that might account for a visit by the Criminal Investigation Division of the Empire.

Alice, having returned from the Royal Library due to the incident of the possessed juggler, busies herself with research projects and her own private investigations using methods that only the Royal Librarian has access to.

The lights of the Julia Roberts Shrine seem to have lost their luster as it pours processing power into data gathering and processing, communicating with distant terminals across the KNOWN GALAXY, seeking leads for the events unfolding on the ship.

Immediate answers have to wait until the crew assembles in Docking Bay 3, waiting for the shuttle from the Mounties’ Long Distance Interceptor to settle into the handling cradles. The shuttle hatch rolls back but no one is seen. Everybody leans forward peeking into the craft. Shadows of men talking move back and forth.

6 Mounties in full dress uniform start climbing down the ladder and take up security positions on each side. Then a man wearing a dark brown aviator jacket and a Red Beret, climbs down, steps onto the deck, turns around scanning his surroundings, spots the crew waiting, stands up straight, evens out his jacket, which was slightly pulled up from climbing backwards down the ladder.

The man has a thin very regulation mustache and bushy brown eyebrows. He wears a dark black turtleneck sweater under the aviator jacket, and wears polished black riding boots. He begins striding forward towards the Gang.

Everyone straightens, more from nervousness than anything else. The protocols are unclear in a situation like this. The Mounties are not military, they are Royal Police, and the Crew, in a somewhat circuitous detached assignment mode, are Royal Imperial Guards. The man strides up to in front of Rochester, stops and makes a small nod of recognition and acknowledgement.

“Sir Rochester,” the man says rigidly.

“Well, well, Inspector Maximilian Cromwell,” Rochester says. “It’s been a long time.”

Ivan takes a deep inhale when Rochester says the Inspector’s name. G5, Alice, the DeeGees, and Rover all exchange puzzled looks. Who hasn’t heard of Inspector Cromwell and his vast investigations, breaking up Criminal Gangs across the KNOWN GALAXY engaged in activities widely ranging from drug and gun smuggling, to political bribery cases, and an occasional Chess Club scandal.

The temperature in the Docking Bay appears to have dropped a few degrees. And it has nothing to do with the fact that thousands of years of civilization and progress have still not produced an HVAC system that can keep all HVAC zones at a comfortable temperature at the same time.

You don’t have to be an omniscient narrator to see that the Inspector and Rochester have a history and it’s not a good one.

“Years, Sir Rochester, and you haven’t called or written.” The Inspector says this with a certain disdain, making it clear that he is perfectly happy that Rochester has not bothered to communicate with him.

“So, Max, what can we do for you? We’re not exactly busy right now, the Galaxy is not in need of saving currently, but this is still an unprecedented breach of protocols, however unclear they might be regarding the relationships between our two services. And we do have a certain pressing issue of our own that we are working on.”

“Right to business, which is just as well, Rochester,” Max says. “Well, I hate to add to your current problems,” making it very clear that is just exactly the opposite of what he feels, obviously enjoying the moment. He looks back to the Mounties standing security and makes a very mild gesture with his finger, waving them forward.

The Mounties rush forward and surround Rover with Blasters drawn and aimed at the Wooly Mammoth, covering him from six different directions. And then two technicians in black fatigues emerge from the shuttle with a large chain with hooks and rings and rush forward towards Rover. Rover rears back as the technicians move in on his front legs.

Rochester, fearing a confrontation, waves Ivan forward to Rover’s side to calm the Mammoth, and turns on the Inspector. “What the hell is the meaning of this behavior, Max?” Rochester demands.

“In the Name of the Crown I present you with this warrant for the arrest of Rover, one Wooly Mammoth serving in the capacity of Crewman of the Royal Imperial Guard Ship, The Keystone State, said special service craft under the Command of Sir Rochester, Knight Excelsior of the Empire, and herewith charge said Wooly Mammoth Rover,” Max pauses to take a breath and wipe the look of distaste off his face.

“The warrant charges said Animal Crew Member,” you can tell Rover’s sheer existence bothers the Inspector, “with the recent robbery of the Royal Imperial Bank Branches on Hyperion, Planet Hiserdapplus, and the Imperial Shipping Colony of Greater Lackawanna, plus the destruction of numerous Imperial vehicles and flying crafts, and in addition the crimes of sedition, plagiarism, subversion, failure to obey the speed limit in a school zone, and committing crimes originally written up in obscure science fiction magazines.”

With each crime called out the DeeGees gasp, G5’s face turns darker and darker and angry, and Ivan is moving close to tears. Alice’s eyebrows move close together in a puzzled and clear eyed look of determination.

“Your Rover has been a busy little Wooly Mammoth, Rochester,” Max says with a certain tone of pleasure and satisfaction, knowing how shocking this must be. “Put the irons on him, Men,” Max commands.

The technicians move to obey and Rover starts to tense up. The technicians hesitate, not sure exactly how to do what they have been commanded and not wanting to be turned into mashed mincemeat technicians.

“Rover!” Rochester calls out in a commanding voice. “Down Boy! Just Relax! Do your deep breathing exercises, and work on the calming routine I’ve been teaching you.”

You can see Rover start to relax and a certain focus into the distance gets into his eyes, his chest going up and down evenly. The technicians see this and seeing an opportunity to do their job without getting stomped into Wooly Mammoth debris, rush in and snap the chains and clamps around all four of Rover’s legs until he is thoroughly enchained. Rover clearly is managing his mental state but Ivan shakes and waves his arms around aimlessly.

Rochester sees this and makes a gesture with his head to G5 and the DeeGees to go over and get Ivan away from the Mounties and Rover before he makes a fool of himself or does something stupid like interfering. Alice steps up beside Rochester. Both are calm and focused, though angry.

The women surround Ivan, G5 puts her arms around him and shepherds him away, the DeeGees all pet Rover on the tusks as they walk by, trying to add some reassurance to his meditation.

Rochester turns angrily upon Max, clearly close to coming to blows. Alice places a hand of restraint on his arm.

“No doubt you’re enjoying this, Max. In the interest of congenial relations between the Branches of the Empire, I will let this insult stand unchallenged and will accept the warrant at face value until such time as further official proceedings occur.”

Rochester grabs the paperwork from the hands of the Inspector, who lets it go with something of a huff. He waves to the Mounties.

“Move it, Scumbag!” one of the Mounties shouts at Rover. The Wooly Mammoth begins shuffling forward in his chains, head hung low, quietly breathing and chanting, making an immense effort to maintain his demeanor.

The Mounties march Rover back around to the read of the shuttle, where a ramp has lowered, and then they march up into the craft, Rover, the six Mounties with their weapons still aimed at the Mammoth, and the two Technicians bring up the tail.

The ramp raises and closes with a thump.

Ivan collapses onto his knees groaning as if some bad guy just hit him in the gut, or the Author once again overdoes it on the literary cliches.

The DeeGees gather around, G5 drops to one knee and takes Ivan’s head in her two hands and talks to him quietly.

Rochester’s anger is growing colder and he turns once more to the Inspector. “I expect, no, I demand as an acknowledged representative of the Crown, full access to all evidence available in this indictment.”

“Already being transferred into your computer systems,” Max says with a smirk.

Rochester glances at G5, who has already checked Max’s claim. She nods that they have received the information.

“Looks like you win this one, Max,” Rochester. “I expect you can find you own way out.”

“Until we meet again, Rochester,” the Inspector reaches up with his right hand and touches two fingers to his Beret in a somewhat disrespectful salute. He turns around smartly, marches to the shuttle and climbs agilely up into the craft, the ladder ascending right behind him, and the hatch closing, the craft launches from its cradle and heads towards the Docking Bay doors all in one smooth motion.

Rochester, Alice, G5, the DeeGees, and Ivan still on his knees, stare glumly at the now closed Docking Bay doors, stunned and speechless.

Rochester takes a deep breath. He looks over at the Gang, all of whom are looking at him. “Team, this will not stand,” Rochester asserts. “I promise you that.”

This rouses everyone. This is just another of those moments they always run into, when they confront an unexpected crisis. Their training and experience kick in, and even Ivan rises to his feet. The look of determination on his face is reflected on everyone.

“Bozz, Rover not bank wobber,” Ivan states gravely.

“I trust you are correct, Ivan, and it’s up to us to find out just what is going on. I know everyone is tired, and now we face another crisis. But let’s get after it.”

Rochester leads the crew out of the Docking Bay and into the ship.

Is Rover the leader of a notorious team of bank robbers, social misfits, and bloggers? The answer to that question and others will have to wait as this tale of intrigue, betrayals and dark mischief reveals itself.

“Well, Rochester, how does it feel? Hmmm?? How does it feel to be trapped like a rat, your life support slowly slipping away, your options for escape dwindling, and the future looking hopeless? How does it feel?” The Rec Center echoes and reverberates with the dark undertones of a strangely melodramatic voice asking this question, one of those voices that rise from the darkest zones of dread in your nightmares. It sounds nothing like Vin Diesel

Rochester looks around puzzled. They’re all standing in the Rec Center, in the semidarkness, trying to solve this nettlesome issue of being trapped in the Rec Center. “Ivan? Was that you asking the strangely melodramatic though cliché personally challenging rhetorical question in a manner that implies we have some kind of longstanding intimate relationship? But that sounds nothing like Vin Diesel?”

“No. Bozz.”

“G5, was that you?”

“No. Bozz.”

“DeeGees?”

They just shrug.

“JRS?” The Julia Roberts Shrine indicates it was not the source.

Rochester notices Rover trying to catch his attention while making a motion directing Rochester’s attention over to the left. Rochester follows his lead.

One of the traveling troupers lightly stands with her hands on her hips. She’s one of the jugglers, and holds a machete in each hand. She wears a red tanktop and blue and white striped slacks, barefoot, her auburn hair is tied back in a bun, and she is rather diminutive.

It seems incongruous that the deeply resonating voice could be coming from her. The voice was challenging and peremptory, and she seems pretty much like the girl next door, though in this day and age that could mean anything and is a topic for another blog posting.

“Was that you, my Dear?” Rochester asks the girl, stepping closer and he sees a frightened look in her eyes.

“She can’t answer you,” the voice says. “I have taken control of her body, and now speak for her.” The voice emanates from the girl’s open mouth but she is unable to move. She looks at Rochester with panic in her eyes. A mute plea for help.

The DeeGees gasp and a murmur of display and shock runs through the troupe of entertainers. Several start to step forward but stop when the DeeGees hold them up gently. They know that they should follow Rochester’s lead on this, and silently steer the troupers, advising them to hold their concerns for the moment, using only their empathy and martial art coolness to control the crowd and avoid a panic.

Rochester glances around hearing all this, and then looks back at the woman, barely more than a girl really. “And just who exactly are you? And what have you done to my ship?”

“Soon enough, Rochester, soon enough. All your questions will be answered. I simply wanted to provide you with a demonstration of my power. Setting the stage, so to speak, for the game to come. Consider yourself warned, and prepare yourself. We will speak again. And understand this: only one of us will survive this game with our minds intact.”

There is a sound of sizzling electronics and the girl slumps as she passes out, the lights come back on, and everyone thumps to the ground on their heels as the gravity comes back up to normal. Rochester deftly scoots in and catches the girl, slowly dropping to one knee and lowering her to the ground. Her friends and family rush forward to her side along with the DeeGees.

Rochester does a quick vital sign check, and says, “I’ll get her to Sick Bay.” He looks up and checks with the Brothers / Sons of Simon, who stand at the front of a crowd of deeply worried troupers. They nod without hesitation, granting Rochester the approval he sought. He picks her up effortlessly and rushes through the now properly operating door hatch.

After a barrage of tests, Rochester walks out to the gathered clan of troupers waiting in the main area of the Sick Bay. Rochester smiles and quickly says, “She’s fine. A touch worse for wear, but nothing that a good night’s rest and a mild sedative, not to mention a shot of wide spectrum antibiotics and vitamins, won’t clear right up.”

Everyone sighs deeply with relief. Grins and smiles spread around and they all start to talk at once.

“Well, apparently there was some kind of advanced electronics implanted into her spinal column which allowed our unknown attacker to control her, and provided the source of the excessively melodramatic villainous voice.”

Rochester explains that they haven’t been able to track down the bad guy, that they are probably under no immediate threat, and that the troupers are welcome to stay on The Keystone State as long as they want. For several reasons.

One, Rochester wants to keep an eye on them to see if any of the others have been implanted.

Second, Rochester feels chagrined that innocent bystanders were used to attack him, and feels a level of obligation to the troupers. And last, but not least, is the simple fact that The Keystone State could probably use a team of entertainers to help keep the Resident Aliens in line, as they are quite often camping out at Rochester’s office complaining about being bored, and when are they going to get back to kicking bad guys’ butts?

The troupers decide to take some time to consider the idea of staying permanently, which makes all parties happy. The girl, her name is Missie, recovers quickly as does the entrepreneurial spirit of the troupe.

The Resident Aliens embrace the mystery villain incident with great enthusiasm, and numerous committees spring up to study the incident and speculate on motive, means and perpetrator. There are presentations, lectures, and debates.

The RA’s love a good committee dedicated to speculating, where they get to argue and call each other names and just have a rollicking good time getting themselves worked up over stuff that couldn’t possibly even remotely have anything to do with Reality, and we’ll leave it to you to decide who we’re REALLY talking about…

The same cannot be said for the crew of the ship. This was a major incursion and breach of defensives. G5, Rover and Ivan have been laboring to the point of exhaustion trying to determine how the bad guy pulled off the whole caper. Rochester has been making discreet calls to a number of contacts throughout the KNOWN GALAXY, calling in a few favors and asking questions, sometimes blunt and sometimes circumspect. The DeeGees have sent out an All-Points Bulletin to their vast network of dancing girl contacts.

Alice, upon hearing of the incident, drops all her duties at the Royal SuperGalactic Library and takes a fast personal cruiser to rendezvous with The Keystone State.

The Team is in full crisis mode, and you know what that means. What do you mean, you don’t? Haven’t you been paying attention?

You’ll just have to find out next time.

“Call her! Call her! Call her!” the DeeGees chant. The crew is hanging out at the Rec Center.

“I can’t call her again. She’ll think I’m some kind of whiney, nasal-voiced, needy, old creep, like the Author,” Rochester says. He’s kind of been moping around lately. The only time he gets to see Alice is when they rescue her from Alien Kidnappers. Then it’s back to work for her.

The DeeGees sigh, and roll their eyes. “Men!” they say with exasperation in their simul-speak.

Rochester ignores this last comment, not really following the logic (all you male readers understand) and wary of the implications. This long distance relationship thing is a tentative venture, and requires a certain finesse. Unfortunately, finesse is not Rochester’s long suit. He’s a direct action kind of guy. (All you women readers know what that means.)

“Ivan? Are you sure there’s no sign of any kidnappers?” Rochester asks hopefully for the third time this hour.

“Sowwy, Bozz. Alice still at vork.” Ivan sits playing fish with G5. He doesn’t even bother checking the readouts. They would have gotten a loud and very annoying “Alice-Kidnapped” klaxon sounding off if anything untoward were to happen.

G5 and Ivan sit surrounded by the 3D holographic projections of their command stations. This is a special mobile trial rig that G5 threw together in a fit of boredom. We’ll see how it works out. G5 holds her cards with one hand, while manipulating a multidimensional space-time-fuel-speed-distance matrix the Computer uses in the space drive calibrations. She adjusts the hydrogen mix in order to prevent The Keystone State from being vaporized in a thermonuclear burst.

“Got any 3’s?” she asks Ivan.

The Galaxy has been a quiet place lately, with a minimum of killing, destruction, mayhem and social madness and paranoia. Unfortunately, these periods occur periodically, these times when peace, tranquility, and goodwill break out all across the KNOWN UNIVERSE.

Fortunately these times don’t last, but while they do, it’s a pretty dull life for SuperGalactic Heroes. Being away from Alice wouldn’t be so bad, if Rochester was out fighting horrible battles and kicking alien monster butts.

But there’s only so many times he can play chess with the Computer before the Computer gets tired of letting him win all the time and starts checkmating him with three moves. Even the Central Computer finds these outbreaks of Peace and Harmony a little on the exasperating side.

The rest of the crew seems to be taking it better than Rochester. Ivan and G5 have a number of collaborative projects (hacking projects, new servers to build, you know, cool geeky stuff) other than card games (always popular), and have been spending a lot of time catching up with the SuperGalactic Interstellar Winds of War role-playing games on the net.

The Julia Roberts Shrine is constantly busy dealing with the spiritual needs of her many billions of acolytes spread across the KNOWN GALAXY and just hanging around being cool and relevant.

The DeeGees have so many projects going on at once, that they have to have a once a week meeting just to organize all their activities, what with their Cable Show “Ballroom Dancing with Vinnie”, their Cheerleading Competitions, their Doctorate studies, and recently they took up speedboat racing and dueling banjos.

Rover has taken to studying the wide varieties of poker, and is working on getting rid of his tells. (He tends to get narrow eyed and start looking around suspiciously to see if anyone is peeking at his cards, whenever he gets a good hand.)

Rochester, adapting poorly, tends to spend long hours sitting in the corner smoking cigars and tapping his fingers on the arm of his favorite reading chair. He has even given up his work on reading all the classic authors he favors.

And this may be a case of “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth”, but we haven’t heard from the Author for a while. It almost looks like he has written himself out of the story. This by itself should cheer up Rochester, but the fact that it doesn’t, indicates the depths of his despondency.

This is quite a pickle. Not to mention the fact that it kind of makes for dull blog posts. Finally, the Gang has had enough of it, and commits unanimously for intervention.

They hire a traveling troupe of players and manage to sneak them on board The Keystone State without Rochester’s knowledge, which frankly wasn’t all that hard given the circumstances. They’re the “The Interplanetarial Sons of Simon’s Traveling Troupe of Players, Poets, Athletes and Musicians.”

Together, they all sneak up on Rochester and try to surprise him. The DeeGees run out and do cartwheels, Rover runs in playing his base drum (he’s getting better, he’s been practicing and can actually approximate a beat), G5 has programmed three robots made out of spare parts and they run out, take up positions, and start taking themselves apart and putting themselves back together again, and while that is happening, G5 and Ivan come ballroom dancing out into the room wearing balloon animal hats, while the traveling players run out juggling knifes, singing melodious folk songs, dancing wild and flying acrobatics.

Rochester is unfazed and simply puffs his cigar.

Everyone tries even harder but nothing works. Rochester’s melancholy is implacable.

Rochester sighs deeply. He appreciates the efforts, but when your girlfriend is the hottest and smartest babe in the KNOWN GALAXY, what’s a troupe of vastly entertaining and talented entertainers?

Suddenly all the lights on the ship go out, you can feel the engines start to wind down. No lights are seen except for the glowing red lights in the hairdos of the DeeGees, the white and blue rope lights hanging on the Julia Roberts Shrine, and the orange coal at the end of Rochester’s cigar.

“Okay,” Rochester says. “Now you have my interest.”

Everyone looks at each other in the dim light given off by the DeeGees’ accessorizing and the JRS. They shrug.

“Uh, Bozz. Ve no do.” Ivan confesses.

“The power outage is not part of the show?” Rochester asks for clarification.

Everyone shares their heads, even the juggling monkeys on the unicycles.

Rochester sits forward in his chair, leans over and puts out his cigar with a vigorous circular motion in the ash tray.

“G5?” he commands.

“Bozz!” G5 responds with gusto. This is the old Rochester they all know and love.

“Any communications with the Computer? Or the ship?”

G5 doesn’t answer right away. She’s consulting her internal retinal displays, the 3D holographic displays won’t work with no power. “No external communications. My internal functions are all operational but nothing external responds.”

G5 gets a funny look on her face, and then looks down at the floor. She bounces on her toes and pops up into the air and settles back down. “And it looks like we’re losing the artificial gravity.”

Rover puts down his drum and with a smooth motion rolls it across the floor and into the corner and then starts walking towards the entrance gateway. Rover is typically, how shall we say this, not the lightest tread on the ship, something that the Julia Roberts Shrine is always complaining about how it shakes her circuitry loose.

In the lessening gravity Rover moves with a smooth deceptively slow gracefulness that for a few moments lulls the entire assembly, watching a gently moving Wooly Mammoth leisurely strolling through the semi-darkness like something out of a dream or a primordial nightmare.

Rover has anticipated Rochester’s orders and pops open the command panel alongside the entrance gateway and works to find some live power. Ivan glissades over next to him and starts to work alongside.

The Troupers are long time spacers across many generations and while the situation is somewhat puzzling there is no sense of trepidation. The partial gravity causes a minor shift in their postures. Two of the older men, the actual Sons of Simon (a renowned Multimedia artist) approach Rochester and offer their services, however they might be able.

Rochester listens to them while watching Ivan and Rover struggle inside the control panel. Ivan looks up, sees Rochester watching, and shakes his head no.

G5 continues to work her Internal Command Landscape, and Rochester expresses his greater concern for the safety of the guests, appreciating the offer of help from the Troupe Leaders. He waves to the DeeGees, to gather up the Troupe and see what they can do about making them comfortable in the Rec Center for the time being.

Rochester glides over to the boys working at the hatch. After a slightly non-verbal conference, they abandon their efforts and move over to the hatch itself to try the old-fashioned method.

Ivan, Rochester and Rover brace themselves against the hatch, putting their collective shoulders into it, one, two, three tries and cannot budge the hatch.

After moments of intense effort, Rochester speaks. “Okay, boys, that’s enough. Something is way out of place here. Emergency exit procedures are not working.”

The Gang stands quietly for a moment. Under no immediate threat, they are sorting out their options and trying to decide what to do next.

And we won’t find out what they decide until next time.

Though he has been warned many times, the Author once again skateboards down the halls of The Keystone State. While the primary danger is that the damn fool might hurt himself, there have been several close brushbys with the Resident Aliens on board. Most of them take it in stride; just one of the many adjustments you have to make when living on a ship crewed primarily by the bizarre and inexplicable upright walking human race.

One memorable exception to this general level of tolerance happened when the Author cut a corner too close, and ran over the extended sense organs of one of the long thin-tentacled Bylorkians, a race of amphibians from the Chaos Sector. A Bylorkian looks vaguely like a catfish with feet-like appendages that it uses for ambulation, and each appendage has several wire-like sensor organs that are semi-mobile that extend from his eight appendages.

While no harm was done, the shock of having its “whiskers” run over caused the poor alien dude to, well, revert to his genetic inheritance. While they may look something like a catfish, Bylorkians have a gland like that of the Earth skunk. Picture the Author racing around a corner at full speed, an alien scream of shock and a slowly disseminating cloud of obnoxious gases. While this may have been a powerful survival mechanism in ancient times, in a modern spacefaring vessel, you might be surprised how long it took to get it out of the ship.

The crew tried everything but it wasn’t until the DeeGees discovered that one of their perfumes counteracted and neutralized the chemicals in the spray that the ship was freed from the stench. Rochester, amused and intrigued (though kind of pissed off with the Author, but that’s normal) found the whole incident an intellectual challenge, and spent a great deal of time investigating weapons applications of both the Bylorkians’ glandular spray and the DeeGees’ perfume.

Bill (whose real name can’t be pronounced by humans) the Bylorkian apologized profusely for weeks, and was seriously embarrassed. Over the eons his race learned to control their genetic responses to survival threats (some of which we cannot mention in a blog aimed towards general audiences) but that control can break down in unusual circumstances.

Poor Bill became the talk of his home Planet, and the humiliation pushed him towards notably poor judgment. Which is to say he started smoking cigars, practicing Martial Arts, drinking beer, watching NASCAR races, and just generally acting like an obnoxious Earthling. The Other Aliens on the ship ignored his behavior until it became intolerable and took matters into their own hands.

Rochester discovered poor Bill tied to a chair in a dark storage room, where he was being forced to watch repeated episodes of The Brady Bunch while being force-fed Twinkies and Big Macs. After this shocking and outrageous episode, Rochester loaned Bill a quiet out of the way planet where he could privately pursue a long term hermitage of purification and contemplation.

Rochester confronted the Resident Aliens about the torture and kidnapping of one of their own, but their response was somewhere between “What do you expect us to do?” and “Who? Me?”

The Author’s skateboard was confiscated but he is nothing if not resourceful to the point of being a plain old fashioned pain in the neck. There is a special storage room full of products and materials confiscated from the Author.

But we have not yet mentioned the other noteworthy consequence of repeated skateboarding on The Keystone State. Due to some strange structural harmonics and material composition, the vibrations created by the plastic wheels on the decks of the ship, occasionally create a subsonic sound that makes Wooly Mammoths become obsessive – compulsive. Well, more so than usual.

So while the Author blithely skate-boards through the ship, he is being stalked by an obsessed Wooly Mammoth with a strange look of contemplated mayhem. Rover of course is an ace roller skater, and it says something about either the Author’s concentration, poor hearing, or general spaced-outiness, that he doesn’t hear a giant Wooly Mammoth skating down the halls behind him.

However, EVERYONE else on the ship hears all this and Rochester’s comm is soon flooded with complaining Aliens threatening to take matters into their own hands. Even the Julia Roberts Shrines throughout the ship seem to hunker down and turn dim from the nerve-wracking cacophony.

Rochester considers letting the Resident Aliens do exactly what they threaten, thinking of the Author tied to a chair being forced to watch old TV shows and force-fed Twinkies and Big Macs, and would have, except he realizes that the Author would probably enjoy that. And there is the fact that though Rover is under the influence of good vibrations, he reckons that a Wooly Mammoth of dubious sobriety who is also a highly trained warrior of the Royal Guard, might, how shall we say this, might kick some Resident Alien butt halfway across the KNOWN GALAXY if they tried something like that on him.

So rather than risk an Interstellar Incident (they’ve already had enough of THEM for one month), Rochester rounds up G5, Ivan, and the DeeGees, and they head out on a Wooly Mammoth / Author safari.

The DeeGees are nattily attired in the latest Safari khaki outfits from Eddie Bauer. Rochester and Ivan wear their normal black work T-Shirts with the nifty Keystone State Emblem, a gold cluster of stars and crossed bandoliers, and Taiji pants. G5, has an old grey hoodie which she wears in the Computer Center (she says it’s always cold in there), and black sweat pants.

They didn’t really pack anything for this jaunt, even though a search through the ship can often take weeks and months. Well, they could just ask the Computer to locate the two troublemakers, but hey, what would be the fun in that?

The DeeGees take the lead and head off into the ship, swinging machetes and singing a rousing and slightly off-color drinking song.

“Ivan?” Rochester stops and says. “I thought I told you to quit teaching the girls those drinking songs.”

Ivan looks mildly chagrined but not really guilty, and just shrugs.

G5 can be heard humming along with the DeeGees as she walks past the boys.

Rochester sighs and rolls his eyes. Ivan just shrugs again mischievously.

Rochester mumbles something under his breath about dancing girls singing drinking songs and cigar smoking, poker playing aliens and wonders just what the new generation is coming to.

Fortunately for this blog posting their search did not take long. They follow the lead of the DeeGees, and the search turns down the hall towards the Main Cargo hold, which has an elevated walkway that runs along the wall the whole way. As Rochester walks out onto the balcony like walkway and looks out into the vast cavernous hold, he joins the others watching a strange sight, which is a phrase that might justly be accused of being overused in this blog, but is just so darned fundamentally apropos.

The Author clings to Rover’s tail, while Rover spins around on his skates trying to reach back behind him and smack the Author. The Author, having grabbed Rover’s tail out of some wildly wrongheaded impulse, something altogether all too common for him (sort of like Congress voting to turn the whole country into a battlefield out of some demented sense of paranoia), is now being spun around in circles on his skateboard and while at first he grabbed on to protect himself now he hangs on for dear life to keep from spinning off at high speed.

The Author doesn’t realize what happens when you pull the tail of a Wooly Mammoth for too long, and the team is soon enough left trying to figure out how to clean up a large pile of crap, no, not the Author, but from Rover, which was ejected at high speed, smothering the Author, causing him to lose his grip, and go spinning off crazily across the Cargo Deck leaving a trail of dung behind him eventually to smash at high speed into a box full of stored Christmas ornaments.

Rochester finally decides to get out the fire hoses, and everyone puts on bathing suits. G5 later posts a copy of the security footage on the SuperGalactic internet and the video rapidly goes viral, setting off a diplomatic incident, which makes Rochester sigh and accept his karma.

The King, while privately chuckling over the ejecta spewing Mammoth and smashup of the Author, had to publicly reprimand the crew for a lack of Appropriate Royal Decorum as outlined in the Royal Regulations Handbook.

Rochester didn’t even know there was such a thing, and didn’t get too concerned. He was just happy Alice was working at the Library, so she didn’t get involved in the whole thing and have the reputation of the Royal Library dragged through the dung along with his crew, though she called and said she was sorry she missed the fun.

The Resident Aliens, all of whom despise the Author, mostly because they consider blogging an art form beneath the consideration of civilized races, but also because he tends to leave out any details of the Resident Aliens on the ship, elected Rover the Human of the Month Award, a randomly awarded decoration with ribbons and medals and plaques and lots of extremely wordy speeches, a number of which compared the whole incident to the electoral politics of the Human Race in general. The Resident Aliens do like their diplomatic tedium.

G5 searches the SuperGalactic Internet and finds skate wheels made from different materials which are almost quiet, and pretty soon a crowd of skateboarding and roller-skating Resident Aliens are cruising the Halls of The Keystone State and all that can be heard is their laughter and shrieks of clumsy fun.

The Julia Roberts Shrine, feeling somewhat neglected, secretly builds a skate-wheeled mobile version of the Shrine, which can be seen cruising along with a gang of wheeled SuperGalactic Citizens including a variety of Resident Aliens, Rover, G5 and the DeeGees.

Rochester is the only one who doesn’t embrace this fad. He misses Alice and goes off to smoke a cigar somewhere and watch the stars.

The Author segregates himself complaining of lost appetite and sinus problems. No one notices. The DeeGees perfume once again is pressed into service and the Cargo Hold turns shiny and fresh smelling.

Tune in next time when a mysterious foe accosts the crew.

Rochester’s alone in the Rec Center. Today is kickboxing day, one of Rochester’s favorites. Mostly because he always turns it into improvisation. He starts out with some disciplined repetitions of boxing combinations; you have to work your basics, starting with hands, and then add in kicks to the combos. Soon enough he switches into whatever feels right that day.

One time it’s left jab, right cross, left hook, right cross, left jab, right outside kick, and then it all just changes around as he lives in the moment and just practices it all in a nice flow. The sound of his rhythmic punching and kicking echoes around the Rec Center and you can hear, wait, what’s that sound?

Is Rochester singing to himself? Lean in and listen closer. Yes, he’s humming and singing and working his breathing in a smooth pattern making sure to keep his breath work integrated with his fists and feet. And, hey, wait a minute! Why that old dog! He’s a Johnny Cash Fan! You can hear him singing:

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine.”

Punch! Smack! Thud! Kick!

“I keep my eyes wide open all the time.”

Smack! Kick! Punch! Thud!

The Julia Roberts Shrine twangs a slow bass line.

“I keep the ends out for the ties that bind.”

Thud! Kick! Kick! Fake! Smack! Punch!

“Because you’re mine, I walk the line.”

Punch! Punch! Kick! Kick! Spin move and elbow across the bag’s face!

It sounds like Rochester has a certain fighting mantra, helping him focus, relax, stay in his center, and take his game to the next level, and the Man in Black is just the ticket.

Suddenly, a 3D holographic projection appears next to him. It’s Ivan. He’s not dressed in black.

“Bozz! Bozz!”

“Because you’re mine, I walk the line,” Rochester finishes this stanza with a whirlwind series of punches and kicking that stirs up a breeze in the Rec Center. He turns to the hologram, and says, “Yes, Ivan?”

“Bozz! Sorry to disturb you! But Alice nidkapped by alien terrorists!”

“Humph! Will these losers never learn?” It’s a rhetorical question but Ivan answers anyway.

“Pwobabwy not, Bozz!”

“Well, you know the drill. What is it? The third time this month that alien terrorists have kidnapped Alice?”

“Four times, Bozz.”

“That many? Well then, I guess we’re just going to have to send a message the old fashioned way. I will be there in a few minutes, Ivan. Get the team ready.” Rochester turns back to his leather bags, and Ivan’s hologram disappears.

The Rec Center’s walls starts vibrating with the thunder of leather on leather and shouting attack calls alternating with the gravelly voice of Rochester singing.

In the Command Center, Ivan turns away from the communications console and shivers. “Woooooo, wery bad,” he says and shivers again.

G5 hears this and says, “What’s very bad, Ivan? You okay?”

“Dah, goot, boot der Bozz, Singing!”

G5 gets a puzzled look on her face. “What’s wrong with Rochester singing? I think he has a fine voice. He could probably sing opera if he wanted.”

“No, not voice. Ven der Bozz sing, der terrorists looking at serious butt whomping!!!”

G5 says nothing. She’s seen the normal mode of operation for this team. For Ivan to be a little intimidated does not bode well for the bad guys. The DeeGees, having heard all this, sit grinning. They know what’s coming and it’s going to be good.

G5 turns to her control console, and begins to fine tune the Universal Alice Detector. This is a special rig that Rochester designed, and G5 and Ivan built, that is tuned into Alice’s actual molecular vibrational harmonics. It is undetectable by normal antispyware and security devices, and has nothing on Alice that can be removed, so the bad guys can’t interrupt it.

Sure enough, G5 detects residual signatures of Alice; she gets a bearing and sends it to Ivan’s console.

Rochester walks onto the bridge, his hair a little damp from a quick jump through a shower. Rochester prefers an old fashioned shower over these newfangled sonic cleaners. “They just set a man tingling where he ought not to be tingling,” he always says.

G5 can just catch snippets of singing, almost humming, from Rochester as he crosses the bridge to the Big Honking Command Chair.

“For you, I know I’d even try to turn the tide, hummm, hmmmm, the line.”

The end for the terrorists begins with a thundering explosion as a huge hole blows out of the ceiling in their clever hideout (or so they thought) at the same time smoke grenades roar in the main entry hall as a hole appears in their floor. The aliens, who were in various stages of bored drowsiness, leap to their feet grabbing their weapons.

The leader, who is a bald headed dude with an eye patch, no human nose, just nostrils, four arms, and blue skin, waves part of the team back to the rear of the large storage room. A cell door with a barred window, normally just a broom closet, acts as the holding cell for Alice.

Alice hears the noise and jumps up from the tiny bunk with no sheets, grabs the bars of the little window on the heavy steel door and shouts, “Now you’re going to see just what you’ve got yourself into!!” she taunts the bad guys. Alice just loves a good action movie cliche.

A burly human thug, not realizing he’s following Alice’s lead on the cliched action movie, takes his rifle and slams the bars with the butt of the rifle and Alice ducks back just in time to avoid smashed pinkies.

Out in the main storage room, clouds of dust and debris begin to drift apart and settle down. The bad guys are spread out around trying to cover all the entry points, and suddenly they hear some kind of noise from the middle of the room.

They all stop and turn with their various aural organs turned towards the sound. At first they can’t make it out, and then it becomes clearer.

“You’ve got a way to keep my on your side.”

“You give me cause for love that I can’t hide.”

Puzzled at this sound the bad guys all look at each other deeply confused. This is not what they were expecting. They didn’t set out this morning to give anybody a cause for loving.

Rochester walks out of the clouds of dust. He wears his black Kevlar workout suit, he wears a baseball cap that has a lightning bolt on it. He has no weapons. He walks calmly towards the aliens casually looking around.

The bald eye-patched four armed overachieving alien dude just snorts at this apparition and waves his team forward.

Three humans rush Rochester.

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine.”

Rochester meets the first attacker who swings a big club. Rochester ducks, kicks, kicks, sweeping the legs out from under his foe, and then drops into to a knee and elbow slam into the chest collapsing the lungs and ribs of the attacker who now stares at the ceiling through a red haze.

The other two attackers see Rochester on his knee and think they have an advantage and charge in punches flying. Rochester does a one legged leap into the air and then a two legged cross kick and smacks each attacker in the face.

“I keep my eyes wide open all the time.”

He lands in his fighting stance. One of the attackers recovers more quickly than the other; Rochester missed that kick a little. He charges in screaming and throwing round house punches. Rochester bats them aside, block, parry, punch to the stomach, kick, kick, chop to the neck, and down goes the bad guy gurgling as he tries to breathe.

The second charges low as Rochester turns.

“I keep the ends out for the ties that bind.”

The bad guy grabs Rochester’s leg, trying to drive him back and down to the ground.

Rochester drops into a wide legged stance, feet far apart, and puts a hand down on the neck of the back guy. He simply squeezes. The bad guy starts to gasp and then you can hear cartilage breaking. The bad guy drops like a limp doll.

“Because you’re mine, I walk the line.”

Rochester stands up to see three more aliens of various types rushing him. Rochester turns into a whirlwind of spinning, blocking, kicking, punching, and a final leaping spin around in a circle kick that takes the last standing dude into a neck twisting head over heels flop.

“I find it very, very easy to be true.”

Rochester faces a tall, ugly, and green alien who wields a giant shining metallic saber that he spins menacingly over his head and then around one side and then another.

“I find myself alone when each day’s through.”

Rochester raises his left hand, makes a quick and hard to see hand motion. The bad dude starts advancing on Rochester, swinging wide and deadly slices with the saber, and laughing with anticipation. He thinks Rochester can’t possibly defend himself against such a razor edged onslaught. He’s correct, but that isn’t going to help.

Suddenly there is a thundering roar as a previously unseen giant Wooly Mammoth comes charging out of a cloud of dust and rushes in on the bad dude with the saber. He swings the saber in a last minute attempt to fight but his blows bounce harmlessly off Rover’s tusks with a loud metallic clanging. Rover grabs him with his trunk and body slams him to the ground, and begins stomping him left and right, giggling with delight. Bad guy stomping is just so refreshing.

“Rover! Rover! He’s the Man!” The DeeGees cheer wildly.

Rochester walks up, pats Rover on the leg, and tosses a big cookie into the air. Rover grabs it with his tusk with a curving motion and pops it in his mouth. Then he trumpets loudly, the sound echoing through the hall.

“I must admit that I’m a fool for you.”

Alice sits in the back of the broom closet, coughing as the dust and debris from outside filters in in through the barred window, and she hears Ivan. “Alice! Get down!”

Alice doesn’t hesitate and dives under the tiny bunk. The wall surrounding the cell door explodes outward.

The heavy steel door slowly drops outward. Alice sees this from an angle as she lies under the bunk looking up, and sees Rochester stepping smoothly over the debris of the wall and then down the now horizontal door. She hears singing.

“Because you’re mine,” Rochester says. He leans down and offers Alice his hand. She takes it and Rochester helps her to her feet. “I walk the line,” he finishes and pulls Alice close.

And here we leave it to the readers’ imagination to fill in the blanks of the chase to capture and pummel the leader of the bad guys and the quiet moment of reunion that Rochester and Alice have in the debris of her cell.

“I must admit that I’m a fool for you.”

“Because you’re mine, I walk the line.

Rochester stops to enjoy the view. Sure, he’s a big tough SuperGalactic Hero, but that doesn’t mean he can’t indulge a little sightseeing. He stands at the end of the Grand Promenade on Galactic Prime Rib, the Planetary Seat of Government for the Royal Empire. Rochester breathes deeply, inhaling the aroma of power, which smells vaguely like cinnamon and lilacs. He slowly gazes around from one horizon to the other.

For some reason, even after thousands of years of civilization (debatable assertion), humans insist upon having some type of public boulevard in their ruling cities and adjoining their palaces where the common types can stroll amidst the splendors of giant statues, magnificent decorated fountains (heavy on the naked cupids spitting streams of water), ornamental gardens with hidden geometric esoteric meanings, and homeless guys by the name of Freddie. Rochester indulges a few moments of being the typical rubber necked tourist.

This end of the Grand Promenade ends with a huge granite staircase that stretches across the width of the boulevard. At the top of the 100 stairs, you enter the Grand Circle (the word “grand” gets used a lot in the place names of the Imperial Capital planet.) But looking back down the Grand Promenade from the top of the stairway like Rochester is doing, past all the statues of past rulers and other cool dudes, at the far end, the Royal Imperial Palace stretches clear across the horizon from left to right, and up into the heavens farther than you can see even at this vantage point.

The outside of the Imperial Palace is a cornucopia of architectural splendor and wondrous variety, pennants flying and small transport craft flying in and out. Rochester likes to reminisce about his experiences in the Imperial Palace over the years.

“Let’s see, over there in that commanding tower with all the statues on the outside of gargoyles and half naked angels, I dueled with Harry the Insignificant. And in that rounded-in alcove going up to the heavens, I fought to the death on a small ledge with Billy Ray Gossamer, the silk-spinning spider monster from Epsilon Delta 5. “

Now this is an internal dialog, not actually something that Rochester says out loud, as he learned the hard way not to do that. Rochester will recount, after he gets to know you, and are sharing a leisurely cigar, about the time he accidentally let his internal dialog slip out.

An elderly couple from the boondocks, seeing Rochester standing and mumbling out load about all his adventures, thought he was a homeless derelict babbling about imaginary adventures, not unlike most Congressional Caucuses. They took pity on him and forced an embarrassingly large amount of money into his hands. “We support our veterans,” the elderly gentleman said kindly insisting that Rochester take his money. Rochester took the money and gave it to the VFW. (Thousands of years in the future and there is still a need for the VFW.)

So Rochester is careful to keep his personal cataloging of exploits to himself. Especially since it can go on for quite some time.

But today Rochester has a lunch appointment with Alice, the Royal SuperGalactic Head Librarian, so he has no time to stand around gawking and indulging the good old days. Well, not too much. Of course, Alice has been on detached duty for some time, working on board The Keystone State, with the rest of the crew, but there was always the understanding that she would have to rotate her time with the Library. So this is a day where Rochester goes to visit her at her work.

Both Alice and Rochester have had to adjust to this separation, but they’ve got all the modern tools of communication, so if you just pretend, you can think that they’re just down the hall on the ship. In reality, this is the first time in a month that they have a chance to spend some real face time, and it’s really just a long lunch. So Rochester had better not be late, and certainly does not want to be.

So he strides quickly across the Grand Circle, passing the Julia Roberts Shrine’s Main Temple, and a large number of the major Administration Branches of the Royal Government SuperGalactic Bureaucracy: Accounting, Security, Excuse Making, Deliberation and Obfuscation, and of course The Royal Department of the Bell Curve. He strides with determined purpose towards the Main Entrance of the Royal Library.

Now with Rochester’s clearances he could get into the Library via any of the entrances, but he just likes to go in through the large cathedral like entrance made out of glass, down the hall of statues of all the great Philosophers of Human History, the Elders of Learning who guard the gateway to knowledge: Socrates, Plato, Archimedes, Hermes Trismegestus, Rocky Balboa, Plano the Elder and a long list of statues we can’t cover here. Today Rochester hurries past all these magnificent artworks, these larger than life statues of the Pantheon of Knowledge, towards to the main front desk.

“Hello, there, Librarian Rosokoso.” Rochester doesn’t know the Librarian but reads her name off the Library ID she wears. Librarian Rosokoso is a three headed lizard from the Chaos Sector. You will often find living beings from all over the KNOWN UNIVERSE here at the Royal Library, whether they are officially Citizens of the Galactic Empire or not.

It is known everywhere that for some personality types, alien or human, the best place for their special brains, the best way to achieve the goals of their lives, to become all that their destiny promises, is to come to the Royal Imperial Library and find their way amongst the many races there.

This provides the Library with a willing workforce and a vast team of superb talent that makes it the envy of the Galaxy. Rosokoso is wearing a headset on two of her heads as she multitasks in a way that no human can. The third head, the one in the middle, turns to Rochester.

“Oh, good morning, Sir Rochester, good to see you again.” Rochester doesn’t remember seeing her before; he isn’t good with faces, even if there are three of them. But no big deal, pleasantries are the oil on the waters of civilizations.

“Glad to be here,” Rochester says amiably. “I have an appointment with Alice. You happen to know where she might be?”

Well, of course she knows exactly where Alice is, that’s just part of her job. “Alice is in the Attic,” Rosokoso says immediately, “and she said to tell you to come on up.”

This gets a raised eyebrow from Rochester. The Attic of the Royal Imperial Palace is not a place for the faint of heart. There have been three different instances when Rochester and the crew had to burst in with guns blazing to rescue Alice from miscellaneous strange misanthropes, hibernating alien life forms that were recently awakened by activity in the Attic (naturally grumpy and quite hungry), and quaint curiosities of time gone by that turn out to be horrible monsters, and who took up residence in different places of the Attic.

“Thank you, Dear One, have a good day,” Rochester says to Librarian Rosokoso. This pleasantry brings a smile to all three heads but no response as she has moved on to the next three issues demanding her attention.

Rochester strides off to the central elevator tower. He walks down the banks of elevators to the only one that goes up to the Attic. He pushes the button on the pad that says “Library Attic: Authorized Personnel Only” and then waits. Finally it comes; he boards and takes the long ride to the top. Finally it slows and stops and there is the ancient Ding sound that elevators have had for thousands of years (some things just can’t be improved upon), and the doors begin to open.

Just as they begin to open, Rochester reaches down, sets his Blaster safety off, takes off the leather strap holding it in place so he can get to it in a hurry, and then activates his battle computer, which throws up a display in his visual field via his optic nerve implant.

He slowly leans out the door and looks up and down the hall, while also watching the computer scan for threats. In actuality, he is not yet all the way to the top of the Library and not even in the Attic. So he cautiously exits the elevator, and casually scanning looking back and forth walks down the hall to the small circular staircase at the end.

Approximately 672 stairs later, Rochester steps out onto the landing. While it is true that there are other ways to get to the attic, they all involve taking a flier and going in through the landing doors, or using the two huge cargo elevators.

Rochester figures that Alice is somewhere off away from all those entrances, probably digging around in old boxes working on the inventory of stuff in the Attic. This inventory has been ongoing for 329.328 years, and they believe that they are about half way. Patience and persistence are not just virtues at the Royal Imperial Library, but necessities of daily life.

The Empire tends to gather a lot of stuff for the library over the ages, and it just sort of gets stuffed up into the endless storage warehouses of the Attic. Rochester’s battle computer has Alice’s Quantum Alice Detector / GPS position signal on the screen and leads Rochester through a bewildering maze of corridors, up and down ramps, stairways, elevated platforms looking down on large stacks of boxes going off into the distance, and finally up a small staircase up into a musty and gloomy room smelling of mold and old stuff. The room has old fashioned yellow light bulbs hanging from wires from the ceiling and only about half them are working.

Rochester steps carefully up into this dim room and looks around. The Computer is clear, this is where Alice’s signal is coming from but he sees no sign of her. He reaches down and puts his hand on the grip of his Blaster.

“Alice! Yoo hoo! Alice!” Rochester calls politely, ready to start blasting anything that appears threatening. He hears scratching and scraping. The palm of his hand settles onto the grip of his blaster while his fingers slide around into their well-worn grooves.

He steps forward and follows the sounds and slowly approaches an old box about waist high and same distance square, with the words “Danger! Will Robinson!” stenciled in blazing red on the side of it. Rochester looks down and around and sees nothing and doesn’t hear the noises again.

He tries calling again. “Alice! Yoo hoo!”

Suddenly Alice stands up from behind the crate but at first it doesn’t look like Alice as her normally radiant golden hair is all cobweb covered and her eyes are tearing up making tracks on her face which is grey from the dust. Rochester has to slowly slide his blaster back into the holster, as he had it half way out.

“Oh! There you are Rochester!” Alice says spritely. “Dear, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m right in the middle of something, and can’t make our lunch date.”

Rochester knows his gal, and this does not take him by surprise. With a dramatic flourish, he pulls the shoulder pack off his back and laying it out on the crate he pulls out two tablecloths, wine, and cheese and a number of appetizers and goodies. “You’re not getting off that easy,” Rochester says. “I came prepared.” He spreads out one of the cloths and arranges the meal so they will sit opposite each other at the crate.

Alice takes this all in and smiles. “Well, what do you know? A picnic in the Attic. How quaint! But I’m so dusty,” she says shaking her head and brushing her arms. Rochester deftly takes the other table cloth and with a deft flick of his hand, throws it over the food to make sure the dust doesn’t get on it.

“Ooops, sorry Dear,” Alice says, the dust cloud slowing settling over everything. Rochester simply smiles and they pull up smaller crates to use as chairs. They chuckle a little as the dust settles and they peak under the cloth and start sampling the food.

Well, it looks like there’s not going to be blazing gun battles today so we will take our leave of our friends until next time, as they settle down in the dust and mold to enjoy their picnic, and Alice starts to tell Rochester all about her morning. We can hear his laughter as she recounts her dusty explorations and adventures.