The Outpost (28 page)

And then evening came, and we marched them back to the city—and before we reached the central square five separate fist fights had broken out, and the battle lines were drawn again.

Then everything was interrupted by the moaning we had heard the day before, but this time I knew what it was.

“Nesbudanne!” I cried out. “Are you all right?”

“You did your best, Nicodemus Mayflower,” answered Nesbudanne sadly, and this time I saw that everyone could hear it speak. “But I cannot bear the hatred any longer.”

The tallest spire in the city suddenly shattered and fell to the ground in a million pieces.

“I was built to serve you,” said Nesbudanne regretfully. “I could not love you more if you were my own children—and you could not hurt me more if you were my sworn enemy.”

Another spire crumbled, and, two blocks away, a church began collapsing.

“Perhaps it is all for the best,” continued Nesbudanne, its voice growing weaker with each passing second. “You are all scientists. You now have empirical evidence that empathy is not a survival trait. There will come a day when you can perform the most delicate microsurgery on a DNA molecule. When that day occurs, do not shackle your next generation with the curse of empathy.”

Then buildings began collapsing wholesale, and long cracks split the pavement. We raced for safety beyond the city limits, and once there, stopped and turned to observe the results of our hatred.

There have been many days when I was proud to be a Man abroad in the galaxy.

That wasn’t one of them.

“Why didn’t Nesbudanne’s heart break when the people who built it left the planet?” asked Max, always the cynic.

“It didn’t die of a broken heart,” answered Nicodemus Mayflower. “Its sensitive psyche was shattered by all the hatred.”
 

“Damned lucky it never went into politics,” said Max.

“Or art,” added Little Mike Picasso.

“Or sports,” chimed in Big Red.

“Or any other endeavor where your excellence makes others aware of their shortcomings,” concluded Willie the Bard.

“That’s one of the reasons we hang out here, isn’t it?” said the Gravedigger. “Because we’re not jealous of each other in the Outpost.”

“I don’t know,” said Sinderella, gesturing toward Silicon Carny. “I could be mighty jealous of
her
if I let myself.”

“There’s no reason to,” said the Earth Mother. “You don’t know where she stops and where the silicon begins.”

“That’s right,” said Sahara del Rio. “No woman could possibly have a bustline like that.”

“I knew a woman that had even a bigger one,” offered Hurricane Smith.

Langtry Lily glared at him.

“This was before I met you, my dear,” he continued. “Hell, they were all before I met you.”

“Bigger than Silicon Carny, you say?” asked the Reverend Billy Karma.

“That’s right.”

“What more proof does anyone need that God exists?” said Billy Karma triumphantly.

“I don’t think God had much to do with it, Reverend,” said Smith.

“That’s blasphemy!” growled Billy Karma.

“You tell the story,” said Catastrophe Baker, who was still toying with converting, “and we’ll decide.”

“Fair enough,” said Smith.

The Pirate Queen With the Big Bazooms

This all took place about eight years ago (said Hurricane Smith). I had just escaped from the prison planet of Bastille, where I’d been unfairly incarcerated for what were loosely termed “crimes against God and Nature”, and I’d made up my mind to clear out of the Monarchy and seek my fortune on the Outer Frontier.

I’d docked at Samovar Station, just beyond Terwilliger’s Belt, and was having a drink in the bar while they were enriching my ship’s atomic pile, when I heard a commotion coming from one of the corridors leading to the inner offices. Naturally I got up to see what was happening, and as I stepped out of the bar the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen came running up to me. (Remember: I hadn’t seen you yet, my dear.)

She was wearing thigh-high boots and a tiny little g-string and a bra that barely contained her phenomenal bosom, and her hair was long and wild. She had a knife tucked in each boot. There was a screecher strapped to her thigh. She had a burner in one hand and a blaster in the other, and she was firing at a bunch of soldiers, so I knew with a single glance that she was a Pirate Queen.

“Help me,” she gasped, “and everything I have is yours!”

Well, it’s difficult to refuse an offer like that even under normal circumstances. And when a whole lot of uniformed scum are trying to kill the prettiest lady you’ve ever seen, why, if you’re any kind of gentleman, you simply have to do the right thing and take some kind of action.

So I pulled my burner and fired it at the floor right ahead of the soldiers. The tile melted and turned red-hot, and they skidded to a halt just before they ran onto it. I pulled the girl into the bar so that we were out of their line of fire, raced to the service exit, and soon found my way through the maze of corridors to my ship—and discovered that they hadn’t finished enriching the pile yet.

“That’s my ship over there!” panted the Pirate Queen, pointing to a nearby vessel.

We raced to it, and took off just before the soldiers caught up with us. As soon as we reached light speeds, she put the ship on autopilot and turned to me.

“I want to thank you for what you did back there,” she said.

“I was happy to be of assistance,” I told her. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I’m Hurricane Smith.”

“Hurricane Smith?” she repeated. “I’ve heard about your exploits for years.”

“And you are …?”

“You may call me Xenobia.”

“That seems to be a popular name with Pirate Queens,” I said. “You’re the third one I’ve known to use it.”

“Really?” she said. “I’ve never met any other Pirate Queens. I thought I was the only one.”

Now, I’m pretty sure that Pirate Queens don’t have a union or a school yearbook or anything like that, but even so I should have latched onto the clue right there. But then she took a deep breath, which sent out waves and ripples and flutters all through her magnificent superstructure, and all other thoughts promptly vanished from my mind.

“Perhaps you’d like to join me in my private quarters and get comfortable?” she suggested.

I would have thought that the entire ship qualified as her private quarters, but I just nodded without taking my eyes off her bosom and followed her to her sleeping cabin.

And what a sleeping cabin it was! There was no bed, but the floor was covered with dozens of soft, thick furs, and the walls and ceiling were completely mirrored.

She stood in the middle of the cabin and turned to face me.

“You know, Hurricane Smith,” she said, “I could use a man like you.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” I replied.

She chuckled, which sent still more ripples across her flesh. “I meant in my work.”

“What
is
your work?” I asked.

“Robbing space stations, holding up navy convoys, stealing precious gemstones, and eluding the gendarmes.”

“Standard Pirate Queen fare,” I noted.

“Well?” she said. “Will you join me?”

“As a full partner?”

“As a junior partner,” she replied. “Even the notorious Hurricane Smith can’t start at the top.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” I said.

She unhooked her bra and let it fall to the floor. “I’ll help you make up your mind,” she said.

“That’s very considerate of you,” I said, starting to slip out of my tunic.

“Considerate is my middle name,” she smiled, removing her g-string.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider removing all your weapons, too?”

“When I know you better.”

“How much better do you plan on knowing me?” I asked.

She walked over, put her arms around me, and pressed her body against me—well, as much as she
could
press against me with those magnificent bazooms in the way.

“You’d be surprised,” she whispered.

Well, not much we did for the next couple of hours actually surprised me, but it sure went a long way toward making me decide to become her junior partner.

It was when I woke up a little later that I realized that something was terribly wrong. I stood up and looked down at my Pirate Queen—and saw that her breasts were now a few feet long, kind of flat, and covered half the floor of the little cabin.

“What the hell’s going on here?” I bellowed.

She woke up right away, tried to sit up, couldn’t get her balance, and finally realized what had happened. Instantly her breasts resumed their original shape.

“Good morning, my darling,” said Xenobia.

“What
are
you?” I demanded.

“Don’t you remember?” she said with a smile. “I’m your senior partner.”

“What
else
are you?” I insisted. “I’ll make it real easy. Let’s start with what you’re not, which is a woman.”

“That didn’t make any difference to you a few hours ago,” she pointed out.

“A few hours ago I was blinded by your beauty,” I said. “Or what seemed to be your beauty.”

“Didn’t you enjoy making love to me?” she asked.

“That’s got nothing to do with it!” I yelled. “I want to know what you are!”

“I told you—I’m a Pirate Queen.”

“But what
kind
of a Pirate Queen?”

“The beautiful kind. Isn’t that the kind you’re attracted to?”

“I’m getting very confused here,” I said.

She sighed, and even though I knew that she lacked a certain degree of—how shall I say it?—structural integrity, I just couldn’t help staring as her bosom rose and fell.

“All right,” she said. “I needed a partner. I saw you at the space station and recognized you from your Wanted posters, so I shot a soldier and arranged for you to rescue me.”

“How did you know I’d be willing to risk life and limb rescuing a woman I’d never seen before?”

“Because every member of your race and gender is a sucker for
these
,” she said—and as the words left her mouth, her bosoms reached out across the room and caressed my cheeks. I was torn between kissing them and running hell-for-leather to the far end of the ship, and the only reason I didn’t choose the latter course of action is because I had a horrible premonition that her breasts could reach that far and I didn’t want to find out for sure. So I chose a middle course of action and just stood there shaking like a leaf.

“Oh,” she said sympathetically. “Have I scared you?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But you’re getting awfully close. What do you really look like?”

“What difference does it make?” she responded. “I can always look like this for you.”

“God, I hope not!” I said devoutly.

She smiled and almost blushed. “I forgot,” she said, and suddenly her breasts contracted until they were merely E cups again.

“So, Hurricane Smith,” she said, “will you ride the spaceways with me, plunder the wealthy, and share my sexual favors?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“But why not?” she asked. “Has any human woman ever pleased you more?”

“No,” I admitted. “But every last one of them has upset me less.”

“But I can
be
human for you!” she insisted.

“Every time I grab you,” I said, “which figures to be pretty damned often, I’d always wonder exactly what I was
really
grabbing.”

“If it feels good—and I assure you it feels good to me, too—why worry about it?”

“A man’s got to worry about
something
,” I explained. “If I hook up with you, I figure I’ll have enough worries to last me a couple of lifetimes and maybe part of a third.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said. “We could have been a wonderful team.”

“Is that a real tear rolling down your cheek,” I asked, “or are you just putting on a show for me?”

“Last night was the show,” she replied mournfully. “The tear is for real.”

And that’s the way I’ll always remember her—standing there, the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen (except for you, my dear), with a real tear rolling down her face.

But it was a useful experience, for as time went by I realized that appearances aren’t very important, and if I hadn’t discovered that I might still be a bachelor searching futilely for love instead of a happily married man.