CHAPTER 12

On the way down the musty, dusty corridors two things occurred to Bill.

One was that he sure would like a drink.

The other was that he hadn't the faintest idea of what their two-headed guide was talking about. What was a generation ship anyway?

"What's a generation ship?" he asked Elliot as they tagged along behind the happy custodial moo-tant on the way to the fabled bridge. "Is it like maybe a ship's electricity generator?"

"Boy!" said moo-Bob. "This guy's dopier than my brother!"

"Hmmmmmph!" said moo-Bill emphatically.

"No, Bill. That's 'generator.' This is 'generation.' You know, like a lot of people descended from each other. Each one's a generation."

"What about it then?" Bill muttered, still unaware. "I know what a generation is. What's it got to do with a ship?"

"Listen and learn, oh school dropout. Generation ships, well, they're a part of ancient Earth history, while there was still an Earth to have a history about. Which you would have known if you had not cut so many classes."

"Earth. I'm up on that. Inventors of beer, wine and distilled spirits!"

"And home of the Original Holy Cow!" said moo-Bob.

"Well, I suppose we'll hear about that later, won't we?" said Elliot. "But for right now, I think I'd better answer Bill's question. You know, Bill, there weren't always faster than light starship drives, and bloater drives and such. There wasn't even space travel. In fact, as no doubt you can surmise from our experience down in that captive universe of the American Southwest, people used to ride around on horses. Can't get from planet to planet or from star to star very well on a horse, now can you?"

Elliot went on to explain, in boring detail, how when human science believed what Einstein's Theory of Relativity said about matter not being able to travel past the speed of light, yearning hearts and minds nonetheless desired to travel out to settle the stars in their restless urge for progress, conquest, and bigger, better wars. That's when some fascistic moron came up with the ridiculous idea of imprisoning people in a big spaceship and shooting them out toward the stars. Where, just possibly, the surviving remote descendants of the long-dead first crew might reach and settle distant planets.

This highly dubious concept encouraged other scientists to suggest that, the basics of human need thus satisfied, an entire colony could travel through space for the years necessary to arrive at neighboring solar systems. True, it would take many generations of human civilization to arrive at their destination, but with all the comforts of home, how could people refuse? They tried to, not being enamored of being shot off on a one-way trip, but isn't that what MPs and the draft and press gangs are for? Manacled and weeping, the "volunteers" of the first generation ships were dispatched from Earth.

Unfortunately, two factors intruded.

The first was that no sooner had the first batch of generation ships been dispatched, than all the various sorts of FTL drives began to be discovered. Mankind gradually forgot all about these space-faring closed societies traveling to such spots as Alpha, Beta and Proxima Centauri.

The second was that as things got old and fell apart on these ships, they couldn't be fixed or replaced. So civilization aboard most of these ships degenerated to savagery. The highly complex technology was forgotten and the piloting systems went kafluey, driving the whole works off course and into oblivion.

Such was clearly the case with this particular generation ship.

"But what about the captive universe?" asked Bill. "Why would anybody put a desert aboard a starship?"

"Clearly, Bill, because someone had foreseen the possibility of civilization degenerating thusly. Therefore, why not import an artificial civilization modeled on an older self-sufficient people, keep them chained to confining belief systems and then, when they made it to another world, reeducate them? Certainly a concept that might see that at least a couple of ships made it to those distant worlds."

Yes. Bill had to admit that he could definitely see the case for this argument.

"That takes care of the Indians all right," Bill said. "But where do these mutants come from?"

"I have a feeling we are going to find out very soon. You heard the word mutiny. Maybe they took over from the original leaders — mutinied — and started piloting the generation ship."

"But toward where?"

"That's what we're going to have to find out."

"On the bridge?"

"I see you are beginning to think — even though it is still an effort. So we're off to see this captain — and maybe even this Holy Cow ... the resident deity, it would seem."

As they talked, they had traveled along the musty dusty corridors, dimly lit by grimy 15-watt bulbs, half of them burnt out. Now as they turned to follow another corridor, Bill noticed a porthole through which tiny bright lights peered and twinkled.

"Stars!" said Bill.

"No," said moo-Bill. "That's just the Holy Firefly collection. We tech folk aren't allowed to look at stars. Only the Udderly Holy Cow Monks can gaze upon the bright fury of the stars!"

"They're just these bright lights in space, that's all," shrugged Bill. "No big deal."

"Let's not fumble with sacrilege, Bill," suggested Elliot. "Stars are gods to some people!"

"Gods, shmods!" said moo-Bill. "Da stars dey just big shiny Holy Cow droppings!"

His brother slapped him sharply and immediately across his forehead. "I told you to keep your mouth shut, dammit!"

The dumber pair of the moo-tant twins looked infinitely chagrined. "Oop!" And he promptly clenched his teeth shut again, putting their mutual hands over his mouth.

The two-headed moo-tant led them on down the hallway, which opened into a large balcony overlooking a large deserted open area with doors and corridors leading from it.

"Hey — what's in there?" asked Bill, pointing toward a bank of refrigerator windows.

"Take a guess," said Bill-Bob.

"Booze!" said Bill, getting excited.

"Mmmmph!" said moo-Bill, looking even more excited than Bill, but refraining from speaking.

Moo-Bob looked very pleased with himself. "No. Guess again?"

"People in suspended animation?" suggested Elliot, honestly puzzled.

"Nope!" said moo-Bob. "Dairy products!"

"Dairy products?" gasped Elliot, aghast.

"Got any fermented yak milk?" queried Bill, quickly sifting through the alcoholic possibilities.

"Nope. Butter, whole milk, skim milk, half and half. Cream, low-fat milk. Cheeses of a delicious array and assortment. Buttermilk, etcetera, etcetera, right brother?"

"MMmmmph!" said moo-Bill.

Bill-Bob started off for the dairy department, but Elliot grabbed him. "You're supposed to be taking us to this infamous bridge of yours to introduce us to your captain!"

"The bridge? The captain?" said moo-Bob, eyes a little glazed. "Oh Yes! Of course! Sorry, I get a little carried away when I get near dairy products of any kind!"

"No yak's milk, huh?" said Bill, disappointed.

Bill-Bob took them to a large round metal portal. He irised it open. He did this by pulling up irises from a nearby flower box and tossing them at the door.

They stepped through onto the generation ship's bridge.

Bill of course had been on many a ship's bridge before, just to polish the brass, even though most of his time he'd spent on laser-cannon fodder detail down in the bowels of the Emperor's behemoth ships prowling space, on the lookout for evil Chingers in order to frustrate their evil ambitions. Or at least that's what it said in the Trooper's Daily.

Most of the Emperor's ship's bridges were utilitarian, consisting of a lounge chair with a seat belt for the captain, a lounge chair without a seat belt and a joystick for the pilot, and plenty of techs who did the real work with lots of buttons, toggles and mind-boggles that controlled the hi-tech super-science star-drives. Since the captain and the pilot were upper-class idiots, their controls were not functional at all.

However, this one was quite different.

All of the controls were set into beautiful streamlined rows, glittering with incredible blinking lights, shuddering with breathlessly glorious holographic images of the stars and planets and comets and nebulae beyond. It was the most beautifully sculpted bit of architecture Bill had ever seen, with banks of computers far more futuristic looking than the neo-old-fashioned utilitarian designs utilized by the Emperor's ships.

But the most astonishing sight of all, to Bill, was the captain and the crew.

"Captain Moonure, sir!" said the custodial mutant. Two hands shot up to two brows in salute. "Janitor third-class Bill-Bob reporting! We've got guests, sir. And guess what! They're Time Travelers!"

"Galloping galaxies!" gasped Elliot. "They're cows!"

Yes, observed Bill. They were indeed cows. They were not men with cow heads or cows with human heads. They were not mutated cows or mutated humans. They were just run of the mill, cud-chewing Bessies, staring dully at nothing much, occasionally feeding on hydroponic grass, flicking tails at flies.

"Captain!" said Bill-Bob, walking up to one. "This is Bill and this is Elliot!"

"Moo!" said the captain. "Mooooooo!"

It lifted its tail and did what cows always do when they lift their tails.

"You see!" said moo-Bob. "A real character, the captain, huh? What a joker!"

Just in case, so as not to offend any possible intelligence, Elliot walked up, extending his right hand in the official Galactic handshake. "Greetings, Captain!"

"Moo!" said the cow, and it chewed on some more grass.

Elliot shook his head. "They're just cows!"

"Just cows!" said the mutant janitor. "How can you say that? They're not just cows. They're Holy Cows. Especially bred for godhood and generation-ship piloting!"

Bill nodded, recalling his civilian ambition before he became a Trooper. "Damned fine fertilizer technicians too, from the looks of them!"

Bill-Bob grinned. "Yes! Yes, Bill. I can see that at least you understand!"

"No wonder this ship got off course and lost!" said Elliot. "Even the ancient Hindus were better off. At least they didn't let their sacred cows fly spaceships!"

"Moo," said a cow cleverly. "Moooooooo!"

"Can't you see! You're upsetting them!"

"Look," said Elliot disgustedly. "If you don't mind, could I take a look at your communication equipment? Like I said, somehow I might be able to call up my headquarters."

"You'll have to talk to the communications officer," said moo-Bob, pointing over to a smaller cow by a panel. "Lieutenant Elsie!"

"Moo!" said Lieutenant Elsie.

"Hey! She doesn't seem to mind!" said Bill. "Go to it, Elliot."

Shaking his head, Elliot did so. As he fuddled with the wires and computer, puzzling them out, Bill-Bob brought Bill a glass of milk and cookies, which Bill thought a disgusting substitute for beer but which he drank anyway because he was thirsty, while the cow-crew of space pilots serenaded him with gentle soothing moos.

Bill had to admit that while it was all pretty boring, it was sure a lot better than being barbecued by wild Indians.

"Okay, Bill," said Elliot. "I just hope this works."

Elliot began to tap out the special Time Police S.O.B. (Save Our Butts) call.

Within just a few seconds, help materialized, though not quite in the form expected.

"Greetings, chaps!" said Sir Dudley the Time Portal as he materialized on the generation ship's bridge. "Oh, I say — this is really not done!"

For Sir Dudley had materialized on top of that which, for the sake of purity, might be referred to as the sought-after treasure of the dung-rolling beetle.

"There you are!" shouted Bill. "Now what was the idea of taking us here?"

"Try not to get shirty, dear boy. Even ancient Time Beings are permitted to make tiny faux pas from time to time. Is one permitted to ask what all these cows are doing on a ship's bridge?"

"A lot more good than you've been doing us!" said Elliot crossly. "I take it that the hippie from Hellworld isn't here!"

"Uhm, well actually, no. He nipped down to about 1939, in New York City. United States of America. Back on long-since-destroyed Earth before it was destroyed. Don't know how I shipped you boys here, but I intend to make it up. Forthwith, dare I say. And, dear comrade Elliot, to make some amends for my tiny mistake, I have brought along the most up-to-date version of a Time Patrol Control Watch. It is from the far future and is far superior to earlier models. Comes with a twelve-month guarantee and a built-in video game."

"Greatly appreciated," Elliot said as he strapped the gleaming gadget on.

"Just don't hurt any of our cows!" said moo-Bill, looking not a little alarmed at the appearance of the talking Time Portal.

"I don't think you need to worry," said Elliot.

"So, if you would be so kind as to step on through," said Sir Dudley, "I'll shuttle you gentlemen to the exact time and place where the hippie went to change time. I assume that will soothe tempers and make some amend for past follies."

"I suppose it will have to do," muttered Elliot.

Bill took one last gulp of milk and followed Elliot Methadrine through the Time Portal toward Somewhere Else in Time.

"Moo," mooed the Starship Cows and went back to eating grass, chewing cud and producing cow-pats.

"Oh well," said moo-Bob. "Back to work, eh, Bill?"

"Uh ... yeah, Bob. And then we can go and read our horny porny comix. Isn't that right, Otto?"

A man in a Nazi storm trooper outfit and a riding crop stepped out from the closet where he'd been hiding. "Hmm. Yes. Meantime, it would seem as though I've a little trip to make back in time!"

"Sieg heil!" said the crypto-Nazi cows. "Sieg heil!"