“That’sss a big “if”, Missster Sssagan…”
“What’th that you thay, thir?”
“Nothing, Professssor. Jussst muttering to myssself. Hand me the nine-sssixteenthsss.”
“Here you go.”
“My thanksss…”
squeak. groan. grind. clatter.
“Would you like me to…?”
“Sssssshitfire and sssave ignition acccellerantsss!! That sssmartsss!”
“Thir, let me fetch you a hoseclamp. You’re leaking lubricant all over the hull.”
“Damn it all to the Herpetoid Hellsss, let it burn off in orbital re-entry. Ssstop fussssing over me.”
“Thir, I can’t help but notithe that your… er, thcale condition appearth to be worthening.”
“Leave it alone!”
“Thir, don’t pick at it, ethpecially not with that filthy wrench…”
“Will you ssstop mothering me?!”
“I can’t help it, thir, I am growing increathingly contherned about thith condition. It lookth like…”
“It’sss not.”
“Perhapth you can’t thee it properly from your vantage, but it thertainly lookth alarmingly like…”
“It’sss NOT. Do not even sssay it.”
“I greatly fear to name it out loud, for fear to give shape and deadly reality to that which all Thpathe Lizardth dread motht highly of all…”
“I’m ordering you, Professssssssssor, to keep that forked tongue in your head, lessst I give it a more civil occupation in the ssstarboard head of the Denture. As a cloacal maintenance ream.”
“Thir! You wouldn’t!”
“Don’t tessst me, Professsor. You know how irritable the crew’s bowels have been sssince we lassst took on sssuppliesss out beyond the Moosssehead Nebula.”
“I thuddenly feel a bit queasy mythelf, come to think of it.”
“Now, let usss have no more talk of… of ssskin conditionsss we will not talk about. Capissssssce?”
“Aye, Captain. Tho, what should we do about repairth?”
“I confessss, I am ssstumped. Everywhere I look under the hood I find non-ssstandard fassstenersss and fittingsss. I thought the dealer affirmed that even pre-I.C.U.P. maintenance and repair sssuitesss would present no difficulty in interfacing with this ship, but I’ll be damned if I can find a sssingle valve or nut that doesn’t require a proprietary Unizone sssocket or driver. I can’t even retune the hexatonic resonance array on thisss dad-blamed sssix-ssstringer without a Unizone-specced tuning fork.”
“Tho… thelf-repair is out, then?”
“I can’t fix it, and neither can you.”
“We’re below 43% integrity, thir. And over eight ThtarBitth in the hole. We’re too buthted to fight, too broke to fix, and too beat to run. What do we do?”
“What we Sssspace Lizardsss alwaysss do when cornered. Well, what we do in a corner when we’ve already lossst our tailsss. And we’re mortgaged to the hilt. And our mate has done us wrong, and up and left usss for sssome toad.”
Sir Galaxy slams shut the hood and presses a hidden switch. The Carcinogenic Denture rumbles and shakes, then begins to… recede. It looks for all the world like it’s getting farther and farther away, while remaining docked comfortably in its berth next to the Inflatable Pub. For all practical purposes, we can say that the Denture has shrunk to about a meter in length, though that is comically inaccurate and would certainly cause violent mirth among the lizard crew inside. Still, Sir Galaxy reaches out and hefts his starship across his midsection, tucks his tired tootsies into his new Comfy Slippers, and heads for the entry hatch of the Inflatable Pub.
“We do what we mussst, Professssor. We busssk.”
