ALTERNATE TALES OF THE STAR FORCE
STAR BLAZERS
FIXING A HOLE
Being the second part of THE RIKASHA INCIDENT
By: Frederick P. Kopetz
ACT THREE-YOU NEVER GIVE
ME YOUR MONEY
"And in the middle of Negotiations, You
Break Down…." -1969--John Lennon & Paul
McCartney
I. ON THE WAY TO
BUTALA'S BAR
Melvin Seadragon's Junkyard
Along Pennsylvania Route
309
Tamaqua, PA, USA
Thursday, June 22, 1967
10:49 PM, Eastern Daylight
Time.
"Who's he?" asked Derek Wildstar while he and Nova walked through the junkyard past the rows of rusted-out cars.
"Him?" asked Melvin. "The guy in the spiked helmet is Hermann Von Schwein."
"Von Schweinfurt, du schweinhund!" protested Von Schwein.
"He's my assistant; kinda my travellin' companion right now," said Melvin.
"So, let me get this straight," said Derek. "In order to preserve history, we have to keep our enemy, Gralnacz, from killing the Beatles?"
"Was ist los? Der enemy wants to geschlossener der BUGS?" asked Von Schwein.
"No, Hermann," sighed Melvin. "They're after an influential musical group. "If this musical group is killed on live TV,, we might just have a revolution in the Western World."
"Vat about ze Eastern vorld?" asked Von Schwein. "Is it explodin'?"
Melvin stumbled against a wrecked car, and its radio suddenly came on. A singer was singing a nasty-sounding song that went, "And ya tell me, over and over and over again, my friend. You don't believe. We're on the eve…of Destruction?"
"SHADDAP!" yelled Melvin.
The radio went quiet.
"The issues are more complex than you guys think," said Melvin. "The youth generation, at this point in time, is very distrustful of its elders. The Beatles are an international symbol of that generation. If they were killed on live TV, especially by an agent who appears to be a government operative, youth worldwide might attempt a revolution; worse than the sort that we knew they would attempt in 1968. With such a severe revolution taking place, society would become more oppressive than we knew it to be. If something like a worldwide dictatorship evolved, the generation of knowledge that led to Earth's being able to hold off the Gamilons for as long as they did might never evolve; and Earth would lose to the Gamilons. Your history; your very existence, might depend upon your preserving the time stream as is. That's why I'm here, buddy; to help ya do just that."
"Derek…should we believe this man?" asked Nova in a whisper.
"Given what sort of technology he seems to have…and given how he seems to be inclined to help us return to our time," said Derek. "I'd say yes. Except…I have a question. If you know this, how come you can't interfere on your own?"
"I can assist, but not interfere," said Melvin. "Others of my race…might be able to do more…but I can pretty much just help you and have you and Nova go off and do what you can to stop Gralnacz."
"If we agree to do this, what can you do to help?" asked Derek.
Melvin tossed a set of keys, three cards, and some wads of money at them. "A counterfeit driver's license which I created in this State's database to match your identity, a forged registration in your name with matching license plate, and a fake insurance document, with a policy existing in the database of a major insurance company, and two thousand dollars in the local currency, as well as a set of keys for a vehicle. Oh, yeah, Nova. Put yer leg up!"
"Huh?" she said.
"Yer leg. The thing with yer foot attached to it. There…hmmmm..," he said as Nova raised her leg. "Matches yer sandal strap well enough, I guess…know how you women are about matchin' yer bag with your shoes…here..," he said, tossing Nova a large handbag in a vague American Indian style that was the same color as her shoes. "Some stuff in there fer you, too. And, now, let's go look at your vehicle."
"What kind of vehicle?" asked Derek.
"Come out here and I'll show yuh," said Melvin as he sipped at his bottle of booze. "I think you'll like it, heh, heh, heh!"
Derek and Nova found themselves looking at a blue 1966 Ford Mustang convertible with a white top, bucket seats, and a blue and white interior.
"How d' you like it?" asked Melvin.
"You're letting…us…drive that?" asked Derek.
"It's beautiful," said Nova, running a hand over the top of one of the white vinyl interior door panels.
"Aaaa…this here's me
other car. But as for this…I customized her a little," said Melvin.
"They never came in that shade of blue outta
"How did you manage that?" asked Derek.
"I get around in time a bit. Don't worry…looks just like the Ford original in case the cops stop ya," gulped Melvin. "Ya put the tape in by shovin' it in the front panel like this…and…"
Melvin did so with a cassette, and he turned the key to "Accessory" at the same time. Quite promptly, the sound of the Hollies singing "Bus Stop" blasted across the junkyard.
"Sorry, it's a little loud," muttered Melvin as he turned it down.
"A little loud?" cried Nova. "Sir, you almost blew out our eardrums!"
"Sorry, I'm gettin' kinda deaf in me old age," smiled Melvin, who then turned the key to "Start". The Mustang began to crank over and then it started up, rumbling nicely through a pair of twin glasspak mufflers.
"So that's what the old piston engines sounded like close-up," muttered Derek. "Does this burn fossil fuel?" he asked as he counted the money and gave half to Nova.
"Ya it does. And, when ya stop fer gas, ya'd better buy premium grade. If ya don't, she'll knock like a bitch in heat!" laughed Melvin. "I upped the compression ratio on this thing a wee bit."
"You know, I haven't looked in my purse yet," said Nova as she began putting away her share of the money. "I….I…what's an astro-automatic doing in my bag?"
"I put it there, luv," said Melvin. "Ya need somethin' ta shoot Gralnacz with when ya find him, don't cha? Hey, Wildstar, take this! Afterthought!"
Melvin tossed Derek a bag that looked like a camera bag. "What's in here? I…"
He stopped when he opened the bag marked "Polaroid" and withdrew a nasty folding hand blaster of some type.
"A Corellian JK-47 Special, meant for assassins and undercover agents. I know, ya don't know where the hell Corellia is. Don't look at me like that. Damn…I know what yer thinkin' Long story. In at least one universe I know of, maybe others, you two are anime characters. What a hoot!"
"Okaaaay," said Captain Wildstar. "Let's go over this again. You want us to catch up with Gralnacz, kill or incapacitate him with these weapons that are very, very much out of place here in this time, and make a getaway in this vehicle, and you'll send us back to the Argo?"
"That's the deal, yeh."
"What happens…if we're caught…with these weapons in this time period…by the local authorities?"
"You'll figure a way out of it…or somethin'll happen along. I know it will. But ya gotta do what you gotta do."
"And what if it doesn't?" asked Nova.
"Well…ya see those knobs there…for the headlights…wipers….et cetera? Pull the one marked "Emergency….next to the keys…the one that looks outta place…and mutter to yerself…'There's no place like home.'"
"Very funny," sniffed Nova. "I'll just think of the Argo, instead, and…"
As soon as Nova pulled the lever, a weird noise and an even weirder sensation ran over the couple. Their surroundings flickered out like a bad dream…or the image from a flash camera….
…and, in their place appeared the lower fighter bay of the Argo.
It took Derek and Nova a moment to register what had happened. Their car had just…apparently…
…warped into the lower fighter bay of their ship.
"What the..?" yelled Captain Wildstar.
"Derek…are we really back on the ship?" cried Nova.
Derek sat aghast, looking at Cosmo Tiger II's all around them in the bays. The car was still idling, and it was sitting right in the middle of the flight deck. "We are!" he cried. "But..I don't believe this! What kind of technology could put a SMITE device inside an old Terran motor car?"
"Hey…who's there?" cried Hardy as he stopped in his tracks on his way off a ladder. "What kind of thing is making this noise…I…Captain? Nova?" he cried. "What the hell are you two doin' heah? And what are you doin' all dressed up in those ancient hippie getups?"
Derek shrugged, pulling open the lock button on the Mustang so that he could get out…
As soon as he did, the car and its occupants glowed brightly, and before Hardy could adjust his dazzled eyes, they were gone.
A bare two seconds later, the Mustang reappeared in a huge, dark vacant lot of some kind with a road about a hundred yards away in the distance. Derek and Nova looked at each other, quite stunned, as they looked up in the sky, saw the familiar constellations of summer, and knew they were back on Earth.
"Where are we now?" asked Derek.
Nova shrugged as she looked out in the darkness. "Hmmm..I see mountains, and a large decrepit structure about 100 meters away from us…towards the east. The road's back towards the west."
"This looks nothing like the area around that Melvin character's junkyard," said Derek. Impulsively, he tried the "EMERGENCY" switch again, but this time, nothing happened. He tried it two more times. Again, nothing happened.
"Okay, what happened to this car's…warp capability?" said Derek.
"Maybe it only works when it's really needed?" said Nova.
"No…forty to one, it's under that old character's control somehow," said Derek. "I wasn't willing it to come back here to the middle of nowhere…but it did it by itself. Any idea where we are?"
"That structure looks like something they used to call a "coal breaker"," said Nova. "It was a machine that was used to crush mined minerals down to smaller pieces so they could be sold. It looks like it hasn't been used for years…I guess this is part of an abandoned mine or something."
"And the road's some distance away….and the ground feels substantial enough under these wheels," said Derek. "Okay…I guess there's just one way out…"
"What…?"
"Accomplish our…mission," said Wildstar as he pulled out the knob that turned on the green dashboard lights, and then, with another pull, the car's headlights. He looked down at the automatic shifter on the floor. "Let's see…P R N D 2 1…..it's in "P" now…."R" must be "Reverse," "N" must be "Neutral" "2" and "1" must be gear settings….."D"…I'm not sure what that does…so let's try it…"
Derek shifted the shifter into "D", and, with a neck-snapping lurch, the Mustang began to move slowly forward. "Ahhh…didn't want it to do that…..not yet….okay….how do you stop it? There's pedals on the floor….let's see what this one on the right does…"
Derek put his foot on the accelerator, and with a screech of tires, rush of coal, slate and gravel, roar from the motor, and scream from Nova, the Mustang began to rocket towards the highway at 20…30…35 miles per hour.
Derek figured out what the brake did as the vehicle lurched out onto the shoulder. With a loud screech, it came to a stop right near the white line, just as a diesel semi roared past on the road, flashing its lights and honking its horn imperiously at Derek and Nova's little coupe.
Somehow, Derek had enough presence of mind to put the 'Stang back into "Park" as the semi roared past, its driver giving them a long, hearty middle finger salute as he roared by hauling a huge tank trailer that read "ORINCO" down its side.
Derek sat behind the wheel, huffing and puffing as Nova caught her breath. "Okay…I think I'm getting the hang of this," he said.
"Derek, the first time that you drive a new car, are you always this bad?" asked Nova.
"Usually…no…but I'm usually not driving old-fashioned internal-combustion monstrosities that burn fossil fuel!" he snapped. "I'm used to aircars and planes…okay?"
"Derek, should I try to drive?"
"Nova…I think I can handle this. Now…keeping a foot firmly on the brake, permit me to shift into "Park", flick this lever for the indicators," he said, flipping on the blinker for a left turn even as he intended to turn right, and then pull out….."
Again, with a very lead-laden foot, Derek Wildstar roared out onto Pennsylvania Route 309. Grateful that no one was behind them, he zoomed off, taking a right turn because it "felt" right, and guessing at the speed limit, he got the Mustang to more or less keep to 40 MPH as, unknown to him and Nova, the Mustang roared north towards its destination…the borough of McAdoo.
A few minutes later, Derek
had learned the Mustang well enough to get its speed down to a steady 35 as the
coupe bumped over a railroad crossing and entered the small town of
As Derek drove, Nova played about with the radio. She had picked up an FM station that was playing the (Theme From) The Monkees. In four-channel stereo. Quite loudly. Combined with the rumble of the Mustang's glasspaks, its electric blue paint, and the open top, the coupe and its occupants made several people turn their heads as it roared into McAdoo, past the mostly older and rustier vehicles of the locals parked in the street. Although some kid went past in the dark on a skateboard, yelling, "TUFF, MAN!" at the young couple in their car, most of the locals thought. Hippie Freaks From Philly. Just on their way up to the Poconos. Not gonna stop here and buy anything. Nuisance. Get the Hell out of our Town, and other such endearing things.
"Derek, do you think we're causing a scene?" asked Nova.
"If I were you, I'd turn down the radio," he said.
"Oh," squeaked Nova. She turned down the radio, muting Summer in the City, just as, behind them, an even more conspicuous car came up on their bumper.
As Derek stopped at a light, he looked towards the left, his eyes popping open as a shiny black Jaguar XKE coupe stopped beside him in the passing lane. The tinted window rolled open, and, a moment later, so did his mouth.
A young woman with raven-black hair, who wore features (if possible) even prettier than Nova's and a black leather jacket of some type said, in an exotic accent Derek couldn't place, "I say…care to drag?"
"Uhhh…uhhh…"
"Nonononono," whispered Nova urgently, just as Derek learned that even a kick from a sandal-clad foot could hurt if placed the right way over a transmission hump.
"Oh, too bad…would be nice to see what your car could do, no?" smiled the stranger. "If you'll excuse me, I must be going. Business calls."
As soon as the light turned green, the girl whizzed away at about 45.
"Who does she sound like?" muttered Derek. "Sounds.."
Behind them, someone honked. "Earth to Derek. Wife to HUSBAND!" snapped Nova. "Do you want to move, or shall I drive and leave you to ogle the locals, sir?"
"Oh…sorry…she sounds like Tatiana or someone. Just that accent…that's all…"
"And that car, and that hair, and that face, and that tight leather jacket, right?" huffed Nova.
"Just unusual for this time, Nova."
"Ohhh…please," said Nova. "You mean to say you never saw the old TV films. People dressed like that to emulate these supposed secret agents…or fictional characters who were supposed to be secret agents."
"Who?"
"I don't know…I don't have a photographic memory!" snapped Nova. "Ohh…enough of this. See that bar?"
"That place? BUTALA'S?"
"Pull in over there, Derek. We both need to get ourselves drinkies…and I think the need is urgent."
"Drinkies," he smiled. "Okay. Whatever you say."
Derek parked the car. With a rumble, he turned off the motor, and he and Nova got out.
When they went into the bar, the XKE pulled up behind them and took the space to the rear.
The window opened, and the dark-haired stranger took out a small instrument with one hand, and a walkie-talkie with the other.
Looking at the instrument,
she murmured into the walkie-talkie, "Chief, this is Black Russian. DA,
I'm here. I'm picking up bertholds from that bar like you wouldn't believe, and
two kids following our quarry. Why? I do not know. Their car. Mustang. 1966
model. Terminal says it's recently transferred. Local database…can't run
II. IN THE SCOTCH OF ST.
JAMES
The Scotch of St. James
Downtown London
Great Britain
Friday, June 23, 1967
5:02 AM, Local Time
"Gents, last call's long over with," said a pubman dressed up in a coachman's garb. "Would you just like to talk?"
He knew his call would be in vain in the smoke-filled basement club, which would be clearing out around sunrise. The employee also guessed, from the sound of the talk, that the clientele had long since gone beyond the need for mere drinks and were instead enjoying stranger and more dubious means of relaxation. But, he wasn't afraid of a raid. With two or three Stones around (as in the Rolling kind), it was one thing, but word had gotten to him that in the general mass of the "in" crowd here in London, the presence of even one Beatle still served as a magic talisman against a drug raid. And he knew that at least three of them had been here tonight.
"What our friend from
Planet X is up to?" asked someone in a mod suit with Nehru jacket standing
in an outdoor phone booth that had inexplicably been installed inside the club.
"Mitzi, don't be absurd. He can't be from Planet X. What sort of
intelligence do you have in that little burg in
"Pardon me, mate," asked a mustachioed man in a fur-trimmed overcoat who sidled up beside Nigel, his face obscured by a strobe light as the live sounds of Jimi Hendrix blasted across the club. "Got a light? Me ciggie's fagged out."
"Sure. Mitzi, hold it, would you?"
"Wife's givin' ya trouble?" asked the stranger.
"You could say that. Here, keep the matchbook…don't need it."
"Thanks. Reminds me o' my wife, she gives me this sort of thing all night long."
"What do you MEAN, over and out?" yelled Nigel into the phone as, unknown to him, John Lennon turned his back on him after lighting up his ciggie. "Miss, we are professionals, or shall I send the real men in black there…?"
"Is 'e a friend of yours?" asked Lennon as he sat back down with the man he had been playing chess with.
"A vague professional acquaintance. I've had many of them throughout my life," said John's tablemate, who was dressed in a long tweed overcoat, white shirt, dark tweed slacks, and high boots, with a barely visible overlong scarf draped over his neck and interlaced like a serpent through the back of the high chair he sat in. "It's your move, John."
"So? I can take as long as I like, can't I? No time limit?"
"No. I don't believe we set a definite time limit to this game. Your rook," he said, pointing a slightly addled Lennon to the black knight.
"Heh, heh, he's going to destroy you," croaked John in a strange voice.
"No. You're in one in danger, I believe."
"From who?"
"My bishop."
"Ever since I said that thing about bein' more popular than Jesus…it figures," chuckled Lennon.
"What figures?"
"The vicars have been after me. Maybe even out to kill me like that daft movie we did with Elanor Bron, what was it…?"
"Help?" offered the stranger.
"Oh, yeah. The comic book picture."
"John…it's time we were leaving," yawned Paul McCartney as he came up behind his mate. "I mean, normally I wouldn't give a shit, but we've got that rehearsal tomorrow, that press thingie Saturday, and the appearance on Sunday. Ya want the world to see ya with bags under your eyes on live TV?"
"They can't see nothin'…got me glasses to hide me eyes…or whatever you say. Listen, mate," he said to his new friend, "Hate to break up our game, but…"
"Oh, we'll meet again," said the stranger. "We can take up our game then, hmh? Listen. Les, Paul, and Mal want you to go, so get home. The wife's getting worried."
"How'd' you know that?"
"Educated guess," said the stranger as Paul McCartney nodded "g'day" for all of them and left rather brusquely.
After half of the Beatles and their entourage were out the door, Nigel sat down with the stranger, who was fiddling with a floppy suede hat that had been in his lap. "Listen," he hissed. "I don't care how brilliant you are…UNIT does **NOT** want you getting to close to our surveillance subjects."
"And who made up that regulation?"
"It's been in the regs for a long time, Smith. A LONG time."
"I'm not an operative. I'm an advisor, remember? Any time they think that there's aliens involved I'm called."
"ALIENS!" spluttered Nigel. "You're out and out talking about aliens?"
"Won't be noticed here. Many people here think they're on another planet," joshed Nigel's associate as Jimi ended his set and the first chords of Donovan's "Atlantis" resounded under the spoken words, "And there were the twelve…the poet…the physician…"
"I say…you can't be so….."
"Silly?" asked the stranger.
"Addled. As you've been acting all night."
"It's a common strategic move to guess the intentions of one you're to arrange security for by seeing how he plays at parlour games. Especially when we know there's some cyborg after him.
I've got my suspicions to who it is…they could be wrong, though."
"Would you stop…?"
"Any one of five different races…all nasty."
"I say…would you please…"
"Oh, come off it, Nigel," smiled the stranger, showing a large, disarming toothy grin. "Or if you won't, then take two jelly babies and call me in the morning, would you?" said the stranger, tossing two jelly babies on the chessboard from a pocket. "Got a long tramp to go to get back home. Need rest for a bit…and contemplation."
"I say…behave like an adult…Do…"
"Shhhh, musn't tip off the locals. Long walk to I. M. Forman's junkyard, where I'm staying now. Been there before, and the last time I was there wasn't too wonderful, either. I've a bad feeling about this, but I think we'll get through if we don't lose our nerve. Get home to the wife, Nigel. Good night. Enjoy your jelly babies. And…,yes…say tallyho to the Brigadier for me, would you?"
At that, the stranger whipped his long scarf about him and went out into the late-night fog, putting his hat on his curly pate as an afterthought of sorts.
"My God, I do believe our scientific advisor is barmy," muttered Nigel.
Here ends Part Three of Fixing a Hole
To return to the Introduction to
the Rikasha Incident Please click here