Greegs & Ladders (6 page)

So, being that
the only sort of creatures who would travel to a remote planet to
watch Carnival Greegs with a notorious, gambling drunkard are not
the sort of creatures who know an awful lot about the relativity of
time and space, and being that Dr. Rip T. Brash was acutely aware
of this fact, and that 2 years on this particular planet was longer
than the lifespan of most of the witnesses at the Carnival… he was
right on schedule to keep his priceless fleet of Obotron 7 Space
Ships. That is, had he not already lost them in a much wilder and
exotic bet to an Astrospeciologist ‘friend’ of his the next night…
which he most certainly had.

It was all in
good fun for Rip. He obtained and lost priceless items at such a
staggering pace it barely even registered. What did register was
that he was now sitting at the bar with his Astrospeciologist
‘friend’ and a former Greeg. The Greeg had no memory or
recollection that he was once a lowly, degenerate Greeg. The
Astrospeciologist was a specialist in Greegs. He was fascinated by
them. As was Dr. Rip T. Brash The Third. The Astrospeciologist was
telling Rip his latest theory on The Greegs. Through his constant
reading and research of seemingly infinite sources of information,
he had come to the conclusion that there was a planet buried deep
in the 59 sunned district of Herb where Greegs were the dominant
species. Through absolutely no knowledge whatsoever, and a desire
to contradict anything for the sake of a good drunken wager, Rip
proclaimed this was both ridiculous and impossible. Rip immediately
and loudly bet all of the possessions of a fellow named Jim he was
about to own that such a place did not exist. The
Astrospeciologist, whose life’s work and lavish lifestyle had been
entirely funded by being a ‘friend’ of Dr. Rip T. Brash The Third,
agreed wholeheartedly to the wager. They would leave in the morning
in a shiny fleet of Obotron 7 space ships in search of the mystical
All Greeg Planet. Or as Rip put it “To search for yet more proof
that you're an idiot, and I am right.”

The planet
they were currently drinking on being the planet that it was, the
morning was quite a bloody long time away. The former Greeg
formerly known as Zook being the former Greeg formerly known as
Zook that he was, reacted strangely to the news of possibly going
to a possibly existing All Greeg Planet. He picked up the bar
tender with one hand and hurled his body across the bar into a
group of very surprised Meditating Mockriffs. This unprovoked
outburst of violence was unheard of outside of a Greeg cage, and so
the reaction from the other creatures in the bar was a combination
of shock and anger.

“Hey, how
about we leave right now instead?” said the Astrospeciologist.

“Damned fine
idea,” said Rip, stealing several bottles of Crammington Krish
Fortinis from behind the bar for the trip. As they ran away from
the angry and hotly pursuant mob, Rip turned to the former Greeg
formerly known as Zook and asked, “Why’d you do that back there old
friend?”

“Must be that
last CKF,” said the former Greeg formerly known as Zook.

Nowadays he
was known as Krimshaw, the only real, actual friend of Dr. Rip T.
Brash The Third. As the priceless fleet of Obotron 7 Space Ships
took off in haste, Krimshaw took a peek out of the window and saw
Naddy making his eighth attempt with the female Greeg. For reasons
unbeknownst to him, this inspired him to inflict serious and
irreparable damage to the ship’s guidance system, sending it
rocketing through space and time blindly. Generally, this is not a
good idea.

This time was
no exception.

The Finding of
a Very Rare Book Propels our Adventure

Blindly
hurtling a fleet of Obotron ships through space is a very expensive
thing to do. Each of the 19 ships required to make a proper fleet
is a gas-guzzling, top-luxury cruiser with room for hundreds of
rich aliens. Why, then, do three measly people require an entire
fleet for their mission? They don’t. It is an insanely wasteful
thing to do.

Investment
Banker Preservationists (or IBP, the radicals who perpetually
picket outside the homes of people who own very expensive space
ships) would be horrified to learn that an entire fleet of Obotrons
was being used for the transport of three people. Anyone who cared
about following the charts for Investment Banker populations would
notice a major dive in the local supply every time the fleet made a
pit stop. When Krimshaw mentioned the idea of just bringing along
one of the ships, to help out with preservation and all, Dr. Rip
and the Astrospeciologist laughed and agreed it wouldn’t be right
to break up the set. Legions of staff were put aboard each ship,
and were happy to learn there was nobody to serve. They were
especially pleased to realize the towels would never get used, and
could thus remain in their original factory sealed state.

The
Astrospeciologist (who shall henceforth be known as Wilx, because
that is his name) was busy searching through the ship archives,
which included catalogued maps of generally most all of time and
space. He attempted to set the ship on some sort of coherent path.
It was not an easy thing to do.

Krimshaw
continued to gaze out of the epic space-viewing window, wondering
about this mysterious planet of Greegs and how he would feel if it
really existed, and if they actually found it.

Rip was
sitting down, befuddled. He gently cradled the last stolen bottle
of Crammington Krish Fortinis. The other two had been smashed in
the madness of the getaway. Some might say it is an impressive feat
to retain even one unbroken bottle in the process of running from
an angry and hotly pursuant mob, but Rip saw the uncharacteristic
loss of the other two bottles as a veritable sign that he might be
losing his masterful touch in life.

“Can we stop
for more?”

“We’ve just
left,” replied Wilx.

“You could
turn around.”

“To the planet
with the angry and hotly pursuant mob? We’re lucky enough they’re
not following us. Most of them are too poor to own spaceships.”

“I thought
Obotron ships were meant to be first class,” said Rip. “How can
they not have any Crammington Krish Fortinis?”

“There are
countless crates of CKF stored in the cargo ship following the rear
of the fleet. But it takes a few days for them to catch up to us
when we want something.”

“What sort of
civilized planet do you think we’ll land on before then?”

“I don’t
know,” replied Wilx. “Right now the ship is on a distressing
course, thanks to Krimshaw’s seemingly random destructive
behaviour. If I don’t correct the trajectories, we might find
ourselves drifting into the invisible dimension.”

“I hear that
place is like an affirmation of life.”

“No, it’s one
of the worst places of all time.”

As Wilx pored
over the infinite catalogues of star charts and dimensional
gateways, Rip leaned over his shoulder and pitifully tried to make
sense of the whole thing. Wilx was so adept at flipping rapidly
through the charts that all Rip could see was a dizzying array of
kaleidoscopic imagery. Rip sneezed violently.

“Hey!” said
Wilx. “Cover your mouth! You’re getting me drunk.”

“Sorry,” said
Rip, as he took a few steps backwards.

Wilx was well
aware the sneeze of someone drunk on Crammington Krish Fortinis is
extremely contagious, causing brutal intoxication in otherwise
sober people who happen to be standing close enough to inhale said
sneeze. Wilx felt his mind go woozy and his eyes go hazy, and he
was only slightly aware of his stomach having a near fatal
organ-quake.

“I’m going to
the study room to work on my language,” announced Krimshaw
randomly. In actuality he was hoping to find something in one of
his books about this supposed Greeg planet.

“No thanks,”
said Rip, still entranced by the confusion of the charts and
thinking drinks had just been offered.

“The brakes
don’t work on number 3,” burbled Wilx, believing Krimshaw had just
announced he was going to ride a sonic-shuttle through a
Proto-star, one of more dangerous things you can do in life, brakes
or not. Sonic-shuttles go so fast you can drive one directly
through the centre of a Proto-star while only suffering severe
flesh burns on 20% of your body. However if your trajectory is off
by even the slightest of increments you’ll suffer 100% severe flesh
burns.

Wilx had
designed a study room at the end of the ship's main corridor. It
contained a plethora of strange books which no mortal creature
could ever hope to finish reading in one lifetime. No doubt it was
one of those collections designed to show off how much reading a
person does, or at least how much reading they intend to get around
to some day, but probably won't. Krimshaw grabbed an interesting
looking book entitled
Very Rare Planets.
He sat down at the desk and flicked on the
laser-lamp. The wasteful energy consumption of the outdated
laser-lamp was being supplied directly from the ship’s tank of
liquefied Investment Bankers. Krimshaw had no idea the lives of so
many useless organisms had been given up for the purpose of
lighting this room. He was fond of the lamp nonetheless.

Krimshaw
flipped to the index of
Very Rare Planets
. He skimmed to the ‘G’ Section. He looked for
Greeg. There was a listing for Grebular, the shape-shifting planet,
and there was also a listing for Grelk, the planet made of tar
pits, but there was no mention of Greegs. Krimshaw thought surely
this book would contain the answers he sought. He was frustrated to
learn otherwise. He marched back to the main bridge, bringing the
book with him.

“Look at this
book,” he said to Rip and Wilx, who were both busily enthralled by
the sight of a Proto-star encroaching on their ship, or rather,
their ship encroaching on a Proto-star, being that the ship was
moving and the Proto-star wasn’t.

“What’s that?”
asked Krimshaw.

“Just a
Proto-star,” said Wilx. “We have to not go through it, or else
we’ll probably be melted. We’re getting dangerously close. Rip and
I have been busy discussing which direction would be the best to
pass around.”

“Just pick any
direction,” suggested Krimshaw.

“It’s not that
easy,” said Rip. “The total freedom of directional choice while in
space is enough to freeze anyone in their tracks.”

“Never mind
that for now,” said Wilx, spinning his chair so that he was no
longer facing the impending doom. “What’s this book you’ve
discovered?”

“
It’s
called
Very
Rare Planets
. I thought
it would help us find that Greeg planet, but there seems to be no
mention of Greegs in the entire thing.”

The eyes
of Wilx lit up like the brilliant luminescence of the dangerously
close proto-star. “You’ve found a copy of
Very Rare Planets
?” he asked excitedly.

“Is that a
good thing?” asked Krimshaw.

“That book has
directions to planets that the ships database has never even heard
of. I’ve been looking for a copy for a long time.”

“What, of that
book?” asked Rip. “I found that in a gutter somewhere. Only kept it
all this time because there's a blurb about me.”

“There's a
blurb about you?” asked Wilx. “Yeah right.”

“It’s on page
343.”

Krimshaw
flipped to page 343. He saw a picture of a rare planet known as
Pluto. He read the article about the boring planet.

“What’s so
rare about Pluto?” asked Krimshaw. “And I don’t see anything about
you in here.”

Rip pointed to
the blurb hiding in fine print at the bottom corner of the page.
“Read it,” he said.

Krimshaw
produced a small magnifying glass and proceeded to read the blurb.
“Pluto is considered a rare planet because of all the planets that
have been visited by Dr. Rip T. Brash, it is the only one in which
during his visitation he did not place an outlandish bet.”

“It’s true,”
confirmed Rip.

“What gives?
Why no betting on Pluto?” asked Wilx.

“Nothing good
to bet on. It’s just that boring of a planet. The intelligent
species from that star system even stopped calling Pluto a planet.
It was removed from the zodiac charts and banned from the school
curriculum.”

“That’s a
shame.”

“Is it?”

Wilx and
Dr. Rip shifted their focus back to the encroaching proto-star and
the dilemma involved with not passing through it. Krimshaw
continued flipping through
Very Rare Planets
.

“Didn’t you
say this Greeg planet was supposed to be somewhere in the 59 sunned
district of Herb?”

“Yeah,” said
Wilx, “have you found something?”

“There’s a
passing reference here of a planet in the 59 sunned district of
Herb that has what they call an unexpected creature for its
dominant species. That sounds like what we’re looking for. The
planet is called Hroon. It is water-based and is apparently the
fourth most perfect sphere in existence.”

“No, that
couldn’t be right,” said Rip. “This Greeg planet is supposed to be
an unshapely thing made up of random conglomerations.”

“We should
check it out anyway,” suggested Krimshaw. “It puts us in the sunned
district of Herb. Maybe the creatures of Hroon can direct us to the
Greeg planet.”

“I suppose
that isn’t a bad plan,” agreed Wilx.

Rip pointed at
the window. “I must remind everyone of the encroaching
proto-star.”

“Oh, yeah.
Take a left,” said Wilx.

A left was
taken. The fleet of ships veered away from the deadly proto-star.
The movement of the entire fleet was controlled solely by the
guidance system of the Obotron 1, the finest ship of the fleet and
also the ship on which our characters resided. Wilx set course for
the planet Hroon. Being that the guidance system of Obotron 1 was
the guidance system that Krimshaw had irreparably damaged, the
fleet was only on a vague-level course with Hroon, which meant they
would one day probably arrive, but only after experiencing an
unforeseeable number of ill-fated shortcuts.