CHAPTER 3

"Trooper Bill?"

Bill looked up groggily, seeing everything through beer-colored glasses.

"Trooper Bill? Can you read me? Over?"

Bill realized that the reason his glasses were beer-colored was because he'd passed out in a spaceport bar. Everything was agreeably dark and cozy and soft, as good bars usually are. Except for his eyes, which ached because he was facedown on top of two glasses of beer. He grabbed them and pulled his head free with sucking-popping sounds and looked around blearily. There were only a few other patrons, two of whom were zonked out in pools of liquor on the floor, in good Trooper tradition.

"Grundgle?" said Bill.

"Look at your two-way sub-space super-quantum radio, idiot!" said the insistent voice from the general direction of his wrist. Bill blearily examined the device and noted J. Edgar Insufledor's ugly image peering out accusingly. "Listen up, Bill. We've decided that your failure to produce Lt. Brandox was all to the good. We've reached the inescapable conclusion that you'll have to do for alcoholic cover. You seem to have a natural talent for it."

Bill tried to respond, but a mind-destroying belch punctuated by a hiccup got in his way.

"Excellent. We see you've already been working hard in preparation. However, in this situation, we've decided that you'll need a companion agent. A top agent of ours. He's sitting right beside you at this moment. His name is Elliot Methadrine, G-man. Say hi to your new partner, Elliot, and show how friendly and forthright a good honest Emperor's G-man can be."

The man standing there turned around and extended a friendly hand. "Gee! Nice to meet you, Trooper Bill. Gee — this is going to be a great mission isn't it? Barworld! I bet I can do some wizard chin-ups there. Ho, ho!"

Bill frowned with consternation while he blinked to clear his beer-blurred vision. Gee. Where had he heard that expression before? Or had he ever heard it before? Maybe that's why they were called G-men. Bill was still vibrating with expectancy at the notion of going to Barworld, as well as twanging with horror in memory of his close escape from the BEELZEBUB. So, vibrating and twanging, he reached out unsteadily and shook the newcomer's hand.

Elliot Methadrine had a fresh-scrubbed face, blond slicked-back hair, baby-blue eyes, and was generally so clean-cut and wholesome that he didn't even have fuzz in his navel. He was garbed in a freshly cleaned pin-striped suit and wore a solid baby-blue tie — it exactly matched his eyes — held in place by a gold pin. By his side was a violin case.

"Bludga," Bill gasped, his speaking apparatus still not in gear.

"Gee. We're going to really thwart those rotten Chingers, right Trooper Bill!" Elliot Methadrine bobbed his head with vacuous enthusiasm. "You'll see. Together we'll be a top-flight team. I sincerely trust that the operation on your earlobe wasn't too strenuous or painful."

Now that his attention was drawn to it, Bill realized that his ear did ache. Or maybe just coming out of the alcoholic fog reconnected his nervous system. Bill's reddened, swollen ear began to throb dully and he realized that he had a nebula-sized headache as well. He ordered an aspirin, a shot of novocaine, a Sobering Effect pill and a beer. He dumped the pills and the novocaine in the beer, shot glass and all, and chugalugged it.

"Yarrrgh!" Bill screamed as the concoction exploded in his stomach and sent shockwaves through his system. In an instant he was clearheaded and sober. And hating it. The image of his employer on his wrist spoke again.

"Excellent to see you working together. I have pressing matters to attend to now, as always, so you guys get to know each other. All the instructions are in your ear, Bill. And if you get to kill any Commupop rabble-rousers along the way, all the better! Over and out."

"Gee — isn't Mr. J. Edgar Insufledor just the best boss ever?"

"Buy me another drink, Elliot. Get one for yourself. We might as well get to know each other, huh?"

"Yeah, sure, I guess. Bartender — the same again for my friend —"

"Heavy on the novocaine?" the barman asked.

"No, bowb-head. I'm sober now so it's back to the booze. Large beer with a whiskey chaser."

"And I'll have a root beer. Heavy on the root!"

"Wait a minute! They're sending me to Barworld with a teetotaler. What kind of cover is that going to be, for Krishna's sake?"

"Oh — Gee — I drink, Bill. Fact, they say I've got a regular holo-leg!"

"Hollow leg, you mean. So how come you're not drinking with me? Couple guys get to know each other proper, they should clink a couple of glasses. And I don't mean glasses of root beer."

"Gee," said Elliot Methadrine, nodding as though Bill had said something very profound and wise. "Okay. I'll have a beer."

"There. That's better. So we get to know each other, I'll tell you the story of my life. I was born. When I grew up I got tricked into joining the Troopers by a guy named Deathwish Drang, whose fangs these were." He thumbed one of the protruding teeth in question. It resonated like a tuning fork in B-sharp. "I've been dragged through hell and back, spilled a lot a beer, broken a few hearts and a few heads and feel immensely sorry for myself. And I'm gonna die. Probably soon, but hopefully not before this mission is over. How about you?"

"Gee — what patriotism. What gritty philosophy! What a hard-boiled man! You are an inspiration to us all."

Suspicion filled Bill again. What this geezer said sounded like the ripe-old bowb. But then the barkeep refilled his glass, distracting him. Bill relaxed and drank deep.

"So go on, tell me your story, partner."

"Sure!" The kid wiped the foam off his lips with a sleeve of his coat. "Not much to tell, really. But I'll give her a go!"

Elliot, as he explained, had been born to be a G-man. Indeed, he had been born on a one-G world, on a planet that circled around a sun called G-Whizz. G-world had been colonized by law officers and Government men and Secret Service agents of the pre-Empire days, during an era of uncharacteristic peace in human history. Having not much in the way of violent peacekeeping to do, the lawmen emigrated to an already colonized world then populated by racists, libertarians and proto-fascists who were fleeing from justice. They had set up their own judicial system, declared most activities on the planet illegal, other than the sale of guns, and promptly began to enforce the new law, with as much bloodshed and gratuitous violence as possible. When the G-men arrived it was warfare at first sight. When they began to lose, the desperate populace began to import criminals, mafiosi and drug dealers from around the galaxy to help them battle this G-men menace, which pleased the law enforcers immensely. A bright entrepreneur set up a documentary channel covering G-world for Galactic cable and it was an instant number-one ratings hit. So much so that within a generation planets began to emulate the action-filled place, and Poof! There went the galactic peace. The Empire was established to restore peace, even if force was needed. They would be saved even if they had to be destroyed. Which sounded familiar. Soon humans on all systems began plugging and zapping one another again, which ended in the ongoing establishment of the Empire once and for all. But after peace broke out, the generals and admirals grew restless. So they welcomed with open arms the Chinger menace that loomed ahead of them. Of course it wasn't a real menace since the Chingers had never heard of war. This had never stopped the military before. A little adroit propaganda and the battle was on! Now they could turn their energies to destroying aliens and giving each other medals.

Elliot Methadrine was from a long line of G-men specializing in enforcing prohibition on G-world, while running breweries, wineries and distilleries on the side. (Hence Elliot's built-up tolerance for alcohol.) He'd been trained in G-world Academy, was a top marksman with lasers, blasters and bullet-firing weapons, knew ten different forms of martial arts and could make a mean fried tofu burger. His hobbies included bird watching, knitting, collecting UNTOUCHABLE COMIX (a Hindu publication, one of the few religious Comix permitted) and he was a part-time executioner one weekend a month in the Executioner Reserves, to help his cousins get through law school.

Bill listened to all this bowb with immense disinterest, nodding over his beer. By this time, they were through a few drinks. Bill was markedly drooped on the seat, but Elliot still looked chipper and alert despite a steady downing of powerful beverages.

The male bonding was almost complete.

"Okay. Sounds good," said Bill. "Now tell me a joke."

"Gee — a joke? How come, Trooper Bill?"

"I need a laugh, that's why."

"Oh. Okay. Let me see. Oh yeah, I know a good joke." Elliot took a long gulp of his drink. "This guy, he goes in to the doctor, because he's not feeling so great. The doctor runs some tests on him. The guy says, 'What's wrong with me, Doc?' 'Bad news,' says the Doc. 'You've got Galactic AIDS, Venusian herpes and Solarian Leprosy.' 'What are you going to do, Doc?' asks the man. 'Well, the first thing I'm going to do is to put you on a diet of pancakes, pizza and tortillas.' 'Why pancakes, pizza and tortillas, Doc?' 'Because they're the only things we'll be able to fit under the door!'"

Bill broke up. He slammed his beer mug on the counter and slapped Elliot on the back. "That's great! That's disgusting! I love it! That's just my kind of Trooper yock!"

"Gee — I'm glad you like it, Bill."

"Now — what say we get some sack-time in before we have to get going."

"Aren't you going to play any of the implant in your ear, Bill?"

"What for? Voluntarily listening to orders without being ordered to? You got a lot to learn. If we have to we'll do it tomorrow morning. What say we round the night off with some more drinks and maybe a look-in at EM's knocking shop if it is open."

"Gee — Bill. That sounds great! What's a knocking shop?"

Yep, thought Bill sinking back into an alcoholic gaze. This guy really was okay. Even if he was incredibly stupid. But there was something about him that bothered Bill ... like some scampering little lizard, he seemed much too eager about the whole thing.

But, gee, thought Bill, otherwise this Elliot Methadrine was a good buddy, a nice guy to drink with.